Rapture
by katterpillar
Summary: When working a job in Chicago, Illinois, one Jo Harvelle comes across two young men she thought she would never see again and things start to get heated. DeanJo. COMPLETE.
1. Reunion

Thump. Thump.

Jo's heart hammered like a drum inside her rib cage, feeling oddly as if it were lodged somewhere underneath her jaw. Every nerve was on edge, ears tuned in to the fragments of sound drifting down the corridor.

She'd become halfway used to the incredible adrenalin this job warranted now, but nevertheless the memory never quite lived up to the moment itself. Despite how much she wanted to leap from her hiding spot and go sprinting down the corridor, she stayed where she was, pistol in hand and dryness in her throat.

There had been five murders in Chicago, Illinois, within the past three weeks. Every report had been the same- the victim had been bitten to death by what the coroner consistently reported to be a 'vicious mauling, typical of a large canine.'

Jo knew immediately what she was dealing with. She'd had her fair share of hunters passing through the Roadhouse not that long ago and she'd listened to the tales about the Black Dogs, the Hellhounds. After that, the rest was history. Google told her everything else she needed to know.

This man, Mr. Douglas Fawcett, had reported a sighting of a large black dog 'on the corner of Jefferson Park Road' to the animal authorities yesterday. Jo had been keeping an eye on those records, too. It paid to be vigilante. It wasn't much of a tip off, but the previous five victims had reported the very same thing, each time- to a relative, the cops, whatever- and the next day were always found mangled to death. 'A large black dog with red eyes.'

The sounds coming from down the aisle were faint, practised, like a stealthy predator stalking their sleeping prey. All things considered, that comparison made sense.

Jo was working primarily with her ears. Black Dogs were atypically invisible to anyone but the person they hunted. She held her Jericho pistol aloft, sheltered by the wall, waiting for the noise to become clear and close enough to guarantee a sure shot.

Jo braced herself. The sound of breathing was becoming more prominent. Her heart was beating so hard in her ribs- so loud she was sure the hound would have no trouble hearing it. She swallowed.

The pistol was a double-action shotgun; which meant, as such, there was no 'safety' mode. She couldn't decock the gun. Jo always kept only five cylinders out of six loaded, so if she accidentally dropped it, or literally 'jumped the gun,' she'd be punished with only a harmless, quiet 'click' as the cartridge flicked across.

The noise was almost breaching the wall, now. She subconsciously clamped her teeth across her tongue to stop herself from making a shock-induced noise and heaved a shuddering breath. Jo stepped forward into the hall, raised the Jericho and pointed it directly at the spot where she'd last heard the noise progression.

Problem was, there wasn't just an empty hall in front of her. There was a very solid, dark form only inches away who was just as startled, if not more so, than she was. And it wasn't a dog. It was very much human.

Shocked into a fluid reaction she flicked the trigger lightly to cycle onto the loaded cartridge and raised the gun directly to the man's face. She couldn't see him in the darkness.

He retaliated by raising his own gun right back at her.

Jo's eyes widened. Well… she hadn't expected that. Instinct told her to aim at his leg or arm and pull the trigger, but the split second it took her to decide was costly- the man caught her off-guard with a practised flick of his wrist and snatched the pistol right out of her grip, turning it around and aiming it right back at her.

Instinctively she delved into her pocket for her father's knife, but the man advanced sinisterly in the dark, decocking his own gun and letting it fall, for the moment, onto the carpet where it landed softly and almost noiselessly on the plush. He raised the Jericho to her temple and she tensed at the feeling of metal pressed to her head.

With a sort of masculine grace he shepherded her back across the corner and up to the wall, where she fumbled desperately in her pants for the knife.

When she finally found it she was pinned in between him and the wall, a gun to her temple and his body pressing against hers. Her heart began to pump more rapidly, a tremor running down her spine.

His breath was harsh against her ear, accusatory and almost manic, a bloodlust she couldn't comprehend. His free hand drifted up the line of her waist to her chest, and then her neck, pinning her there with one thumb pressed against her larynx, putting pressure on her breathing

A sliver of moonlight broke free from behind the window and fell across the bottom half of the wall, leaving them both still shrouded in shadow. But the light reflected from the metal of the pistol and something metallic on the man's neck. Her clouding eyes instantly registered the golden minotaur-like amulet and she was startled into a dumbfounded realization.

"Dean?" she whispered, flaring nostrils taking in the long-forgotten scent of the man's aftershave.

The stranger paused, shocked, and shifted only slightly to let a beam of moonlight fall across her flushed face. Realization smacked him hard and he expelled his breath in an incredulous huff, releasing her immediately and stepping backward as if stung. The sudden cold compared to the warmth of his body was startling and gooseflesh began to spread across her skin.

"Jo?" he whispered, a husky whisper in the half dark.

"Fuck. It's you. I'm sorry."

Jo snorted quietly in response, scarcely audible. Despite the kafuffle, there was still a completely innocent man sleeping in this apartment and if he should wake to find two armed strangers in his apartment he might be more than a little ruffled.

"Give me back my gun."

Dean seemed a little mirthful and flicked the gun back to the empty cartridge, handing it back to her handle first. She took it- or rather, snatched it- before Dean turned his back to go get his own discarded Beretta.

Now that he was facing the other way, she could see his profile in the moonlight. He looked tired, with a strange hardness about him she couldn't put a finger on. But he was still handsome, as ever. The job hadn't wearied him much at all.

Jo was overcome with a sudden peculiar possessiveness. Trust Dean Winchester to come barging headfirst into a job she had already covered from head to toe. From what she knew of him, she half expected to be told to go wait in the car. Jo's face twitched in an unspoken determination and her fingers tightened on the pistol.

When Dean had retrieved his gun, he turned to face her.

"What're you doing here?" he whispered over her shoulder as Jo surveyed the hallway.

"Shhh," she replied tartly, feeling an odd feeling of accomplishment as she heard Dean's indignant sniff in response. It was a stupid question, anyway. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was working a job.

I'm sneaking around with a gun in some random apartment for the fun of it, Dean. Friggin' idiot.

There was the sound of a hoarse panting from the doorway. Fuck.

Jo pressed herself to the wall, slowly sliding the magazine across once more to a loaded cartridge hole, bracing herself. She felt sudden warmth behind her as Dean slid up alongside and nudged her swiftly, as if silently demanding the front corner of the wall.

Jo elbowed him in the ribs in response- admittedly, probably harder than she should have, but he deserved it.

She could feel the irritation emanating from him in waves and she resisted the urge to say something scathing.

Control freak.

The panting became more pronounced as she listened keenly up to the point where she could feel the prickling at the nape of her neck which meant something had seen her. The panting stopped and there was a brief pause.

Dean seemed to intuitively seek out the same source of movement because they stepped out and pulled the trigger simultaneously, aiming out of instinct.

As luck would have it her aim was true, hitting a dark figure squarely on the physique with rock salt.

The dog's red eyes narrowed malevolently and in the hail of hot stone and salt the canine disappeared with a malign growl and the beginnings of a whimper.

"I thought hellhounds are supposed to be invisible," muttered Jo, bemused, but she didn't have much time for musing.

A foreign warmth on her back caused her to jerk subconsciously and it took her a moment to realise it was Dean's hand on the small of her back, fingers tightening on her skin and jerking her forward

"Bail," he hissed, brushing almost deliberately past her, the leather sliding across her bare arms causing her to shudder despite herself.

A light flicked on in one of the rooms down the way.

Without need for elaboration Jo found her head and immediately started after Dean, who had been joined by a familiar, taller man by the door.

Jo's heart constricted. Their last meeting hadn't been a nice one.

Flat-footed, she thundered out the door just in time to see the Winchester boys sprinting down the last case of steps. Bastards. They hadn't even waited.

Sour but excited nonetheless, she took the stairs two at a time down to the cement of the alleyway and ran back along the path towards the car waiting in the parking lot.

Breath throwing mist on the cold Chicago air, she habitually juggled her keys until she found the right one and unlocked the door, sliding into the driver's side. Cold fingers were a bitch on nights like this when speed was everything.

Trembling, she started the ignition and revelled momentarily in the warmth that shot immediately from the air conditioning.

With a huff she accelerated out of the parking lot before snooping neighbours could jot down her number plate. Last thing she needed was a court summons.

It took her until she had left the parking lot to notice the black Chevy following her out of the parking lot and out onto the main road.

She was spiteful, and only just restrained from winding down her window to give them at obscene gesture. God knew it would do them some good to understand how their self-absorbed little worlds sometimes collided very painfully with hers.

Jo was still sour over what had happened back in Duluth. She'd been practically bound and tormented by a demon-clad Sam and left without a word in the dark tavern.

She'd dragged Dean's ass out of the water down near the wharf and fixed his bullet wound for him- to be rewarded only with threats of more bondage and the empty promise of a call.

He didn't call. She knew he wouldn't. The transparency of his lies riled her.

But the confrontation was inevitable, and she preferred not to be followed back to her hotel room. She pulled into a sleepier neighbourhood and drove until she found a vacant lot, where she begrudgingly pulled over and turned off the engine.

She watched in the rear-view mirror as the two men shouldered gruffly out of the Impala, both looking tired and surly.

Jo watched without expression for a moment before she allowed her ironclad anger to dissolve slightly and stepped out of the sedan with an inaudible grunt of dismay.

The tension was taut as they walked towards each other. Jo had become a stronger girl in the time she'd been away from them. She was still a novice but she was learning with every hunt, becoming stealthier and less suspicious, picking up the tricks of the trade with every passing day. At first, the work had been slow and steady, a job here, a job there. But then in the space of no time the map had exploded with unexplained storms, murders, disappearances. It was as if all hell had broken loose, and to be frank, Jo loved it. It was nice to be constantly kept on her toes.

Jo slowed down warily as the distance closed until there were a few yards between them and crossed her arms, surveying them with an expression of utmost distaste which clearly put across the _'one wrong word and your life is forfeit'_ sort of vibe.

Dean didn't look too perturbed, and but Sam fidgeted despite herself, meeting her eyes only for brief periods of time before looking away again.

"Haven't seen you boys in a while," said Jo coolly after a moment to break the silence. Neither Dean nor Sam missed the coldness in her voice.

"What brings you to Chicago?" replied Dean inquisitively with that almost permanent expression of smug satisfaction plastered on his face. Jo scowled, but shrugged in answer.

"Same thing as you, I guess. I'm working a job."

"Ah," replied Dean in a magisterial tone, flashing her a slipshod smile. "Ellen told us you were out and about, hunting. How is it going for you?"

"Great," replied Jo in a lacklustre sort of way. Dean's conversational tone was annoying the crap out of her. She knew it was his way of dancing around the inevitable. She could almost see him struggling with the words he knew he needed to say. _'So, about the Duluth thing…' _

She was much more interested in observing as the rusty wheels in his brained struggled to come up with something productive.

"It's been awfully busy, I'm sure you boys know all about it."

The brothers nodded in unison. A freaky brotherly jynx thing. Jo had become semi-accustomed to it.

"Strange, how whenever I meet up with you guys I always end up at knifepoint or gunpoint," she added snidely, unable to help herself.

"One of the bad points of the job, unfortunately," put in Sam backhandedly.

"He speaks," noted Jo wryly, causing Sam to flush slightly and smile in a sheepish sort of way, flashing his dimples. She smiled back despite herself.

Damn. Jo was a sucker for dimples. She knew it was a stupid flaw but she really was rendered almost helpless whenever Sam gave her that little boy grin of his. Not that she was attracted to him at all, but, well, when she was trying to drill in her angry point, smiling dopily back at him probably wasn't the best plan of attack.

Thank god it wasn't genetic. If Dean had dimples like that, she really didn't know what she'd do.

"I wanted to apologise for the entire ordeal back at Minn," said Sam in his typical level headed, rational sort of way. He was very easy to reason with but Jo was the sort of person to hold a grudge and his politeness aggravated her.

She was curious, though, as to if Sam was actually conscious inside his body when the demon was taunting her. If he'd heard the words that had come from his own mouth. If he could truly understand what she'd been constantly going over since then.

"I can't remember any of it, but Dean tells me I was screwing with you pretty badly," he added, answering Jo's question. She huffed.

"I think that sounded dirtier than you wanted it to," put in Dean with an arrogant smirk.

Jo cracked a grin, try as she might to stop it. Sometimes she thought Dean was a useless egotistical jerk but she had to admit, he was good for comic relief. Even Sam allowed a weary smile.

Dean caught Jo's eye and his expression of self-satisfaction intensified as he spotted her smile. For a moment the shared eye contact reminded her of that dispiriting moment back at the apartment and she shivered with something that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I'm ravenous," she said finally, most of the contempt having been chipped away to a more manageable anger that rested in waiting in her gut.

"What do you boys say to dinner?"

Both boys nodded at the precise same time again, with identical facial expressions which hinted to the possibility they hadn't eaten in a long time.

Ah, another weird-ass brother thing. Jo shrugged it off again and declined comment.

"Where to?" she asked, leaving the decision making up to them.

"There's a nice spot down the road from out motel room," suggested Dean.

"But please don't tell me you're going to follow us in that little shitbox of a car. Come in the Impala and we will drop you back here after."

"If you insult my car again I'm going to need to put sugar in your gas tank," she informed in a pleasant sort of way, raising an eyebrow as if to imitate Dean. She hated it when he did that, and it was nice to throw something back in his face once in a while.

"But, okay. I can deal with that."

"Let's hit the road, then," replied Sam without a moment's pause.


	2. Poker Face

**A/N: Thank you for the feedback. D Keep the reviews coming? It definitely helps me write. **

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When the Impala pulled up outside the bar, Jo studied it with careful scrutiny as if trying to decide whether or not it was a suitable place to eat. After a brief's moment hesitation she seemed to approve and shifted across the seat to push open the door.

"Meet your standards, princess?" Dean remarked callously with a blithe smirk, having noticed her observation.

Jo wrinkled her nose, deciding to humour him. In a battle of wit against Dean it was difficult to ever come up trumps.

"Only just."

Dean shrugged in a silent touché gesture and began to walk slowly toward the oak doors with a nonchalant Sam at his heels.

Jo followed suit, gazing curiously at the distinct sky-blue lights filtering through the window in the top of the door. It was a place called 'Sky Steakhouse' so she surmised that the lights were a good choice of decoration.

Upon walking in the first thing she noticed was the affronting scent of smoke and booze. She'd seen and smelt it all before at the roadhouse, of course, and she enjoyed the nostalgic feel.

It was the typical sort of inner-city tavern, with upbeat dance music and laughing, rowdy males, frivolous games of poker pool, and pretty girls waitressing with short skirts and tops that showed a dangerous amount of cleavage.

A few men blatantly eyed Jo over as she walked past but upon sighting the two rather intimidating men by her side they were content to look and not touch.

Dean seemed much more interested in the poker game currently in progress on the other end of the room, expression vaguely reminiscent of a hungry dog eyeing a bone.

"Might be able to earn a little in the way of pocket change while we're here," he mused, green eyes briefly flicking onto his younger brother, who looked affronted.

"I wonder if there has ever been a period of time in your life when you have not thought about food, girls, hustling or hunting. At all. Even in the very furthest reaches of your mind," commented Sam in a berating manner, eyes narrowed.

"Well, when you dragged me onto that plane a great deal of my brain power went into figuring out how many times I thought I would be able to kick you in the balls in the space of about ten seconds," replied Dean contemplatively. "Other than that, you'd be hard pushed."

"Table," piped up Jo, effectively ending what would have been a nasty argument.

All three of them quickly moved to the vacated table and took a seat.

Jo hauled herself up onto the bar stool, toes only just touching the floor. She contented herself to lay the balls of her feet on the metal of the stool legs.

A pretty young waitress made their way over to the table, hips swaying and long legs hardly covered by the pitiful handkerchief she was wearing as a skirt. She may as well be donned in a shoelace for all the good it was doing her. Dean seemed to like it, though.

"What can I get you boys?" she asked with a charming smile, ignoring Jo completely.

"What can I have?" retorted Dean with a charismatic simper. He was completely in his element here and it was only through rigid self-control that Jo stopped herself from kicking him in the giggle berries under the table.

The waitress smiled coyly but Sam intercepted with a stony-faced, businesslike "Beer, please."

"Make it two," added Dean, inclining his head.

"Three," put in Jo once again. The waitress gave her a quizzical look as if seeing her for the first time, scribbled a brief note on her notepad, and made her way back to the kitchen with a toss of her head.

Dean whistled appreciatively and raised both eyebrows at her retreating back.

Sam and Jo shared a glance of mutual frustration on the spur of the moment and Jo cracked into a knowing grin. How Sam ever managed to live with him night and day, she could never comprehend. She found her resentment towards Sam slowly starting to whittle away.

The waitress was back not long after with three beers in hand, and with a white smile and a winsome wink she was on her way again. With alcohol in hand, Jo suddenly forgot about that driving hunger that had been so important not long before she'd arrived. The boys seemed to feel the same way.

"Did you end up getting the demon? The Duluth demon?" asked Jo, taking a sip of the beer. The alcohol warmed her throat.

"Meg?" said Dean with a shrug. Sam averted his eyes.

"Well, we got her out of Sam, at very least. She's still out and about. Lurking. Somewhere."

"She didn't seem to like you much," she noted with a buoyant look of curiosity, meeting Dean's eyes and not looking away.

Dean met her eyes with a typical vivaciousness.

"Oh, she hated me. We killed her brothers and sisters. She was one of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's children, the son of a bitch."

Jo raised her brows. She didn't know that demons could have children. The prospect of demon families made her want to hurl, but she knew that Dean sort of meant it more in the figurative sense. Yellow-Eyes was the 'father of all demons,' she supposed.

"You mean Yellow-Eyes is Lucifer?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Was," Dean corrected with the brief fiery sparks of vehement victory.

That statement jarred Jo to the core. She knew that the Winchesters had devoted their lives to hunting that particular demon and the possibility that they had finally beaten it was a bit overwhelming.

"You killed the demon?" she hissed, eyebrows rising as far as they would go.

Dean nodded without a word but she noted the expression of tired resolve in his eyes.

"Wait," snapped Jo, closing her eyes momentarily and putting her fingers to her temples to get it through her head. It was difficult to comprehend.

"Does this have anything to do with that random outpouring of demonic crap across the country? The murders? Disappearances? Cyclones? Fires? Storms?"

Sam suddenly broke out of his reverie and looked up at her with a hard look in his eyes.

"Shush," he demanded with a curt shake of his head.

Jo opened her mouth slightly but Sam cut across again with a sharp look.

"Not now, Jo," he ordered firmly. "Later."

Jo was a little taken aback. Not that Sam hadn't ever made orders before, but that arid tiredness in his voice, the hardness of his tone, was something she never remembered in him. It wasn't exactly anger- it looked as if the conversation had brought up an issue he had been looking to forget. Sam took a distracted swig of his beer, further instilling that thought. There was definitely something about this whole event that both Sam and Dean weren't willing to elaborate on.

There was an awkward pause and Dean cleared his throat.

"Poker. I'm off to play poker," he informed them stiffly, rising from his seat.

Without thinking, Jo followed suit. "Me too," she replied without any room for negotiation.

Dean immediately opened his mouth as if to argue, but seemed to think better of it and shrugged, giving Sam a questioning look.

Sam shrugged. "I'm going to have food, maybe play some pool. Take care. Don't push anybody's buttons, Dean."

"I won't," he replied almost habitually but the mischievous look on his face seemed to say otherwise.

Jo followed Dean away to the large rectangular table where a large group of smelly men lounged around with cards in hand, engrossed in a game of Texas Hold 'Em.

Jo hung back for a minute while Dean entered the fray and with a few blokey, brotherly smiles and questions he was accepted into the game with a mutual grunt of assent from the other players.

Jo waited until another hand had passed until she approached, so not to be affiliated with Dean. It was much easier if they thought that she was alone.

"Hey, fellas," hailed Jo with a sugary smile, flashing her teeth.

"Mind if I join you?"

Jo's welcome was much, much warmer than Dean's.

"Sure, sweetheart."

"Take a seat, sugar."

She smiled and giggled her thanks, throwing in a fifty dollar note and swiftly being dealt her chips.

Jo batted her eyelids, feigning stupidity, and pointed at the chips.

"I'm sorry, haven't played in a while," she apologised with a blithe little chuckle of embarrassment.

"Never mind, darling," a loud and rambunctious man from across the table replied, leaning over to point at the chips.

"White are worth a dollar. Red are worth five. Blue are ten. Green are twenty-five and black are fifty."

"Thanks," replied Jo, reaching consciously for her hair to twirl it around a finger. Damn it, she felt like kicking herself. Come to think of it, Dean looked like kicking her, too. He was staring at her incredulously. She smiled tartly back at him.

As the game progressed she won and lost some, keeping her chips down to same amount she'd first been dealt with, establishing herself as a rather sub-standard player. The men around the table continually attempted to hit on her and she accepted those creepy compliments with lurid little giggles until her face hurt.

Eventually she was dealt a somewhat decent hand, a king and an ace, and called her way into the flop.

Two aces and a nine. Three of a kind. Immediately her poker face came into play and she gazed down at her cards in the same bewildered sort of way she had been all night.

The men started to squabble and laugh, calling and raising continuously. Jo called every time, chewing on her lip contemplatively as she did so.

The turn came with a nine of hearts but she didn't feint, continuing her charade well into the round.

The river came with a king and Jo exulted inwardly. A full house. She was pretty damn sure she had the game in the bag now, and waited until the boys had raised and called sufficiently before she decided to turn up the rate of knots.

Her bewildered expression turned to one of callous, smug satisfaction and she pushed in a green chip, raising a brow in challenge.

"Raise."

Immediately there came a cascade of folding from all around the table until finally there was only Dean left, hovering indecisively. Jo decided now would be a good time to sledge.

"I hope you're feeling lucky, handsome," she told him with a wistful giggle, taking a sip of her beer. Dean cocked an eyebrow in response.

"Lucky and then some, sweetheart," he drawled without missing a beat. "I hope you're feeling selfless. Raise." Dean pushed another green chip into the center of the table.

Jo shook her head and clicked her tongue.

"Not a chance in hell, baby. Call. That's me all in." Jo pushed her remaining chips into the middle of the table.

Dean chuckled and shrugged, scratching the back of his head.

"Don't say I didn't warn you. Go ahead, lay them out."

Jo shrugged and laid her cards down. A few men whistled, impressed, from around the table and Dean's face steeled.

"Good hand," he said after a moment, looking meek. Jo smirked viciously.

Dean shook his head. "Dealer was kind this round." With that, he pressed down his cards to the table.

Two nines. Four of a kind. Shit.

The rowdy men yelled appreciatively and smacked Dean on the back, murmuring their praise. Dean chuckled his thanks and met Jo's gaze over the table, more arrogant than ever.

If looks could kill, Dean would be a little pile of soot on his chair right now.

Jo shrugged and smacked another fifty on the table to buy herself back in, determined. The men pushed a bundle of chips towards her.

"You won't be so lucky next time, _honey_," warned Jo scathingly as the dealer dealt her cards, interjecting as much venom as she possibly could into that one word.

Dean barked a laugh at her and put his chin in hand.

"Bring it on, blondie. As you put it- not a chance in hell."

"Willing to make a bet on that?" snapped Jo before she could help herself, allowing a fleeting glance at her cards.

"Sure." Dean smirked, eyes trailing up from his cards and onto hers.

"What are we talking?"

Jo shrugged. "Let me think on it."

She surveyed the flop. Nine of hearts, ten of spades, queen of diamonds.

"Hundred bucks," she said finally, raising his head to Dean's. He snorted.

"Come on, baby, that's not a poker bet," he pushed, eyes flicking down to his cards again and then back to hers with renewed confidence.

One of the men on the left of the table yelled "she takes her top off!"

The man to her left raised a glass.

"Hell yes! I'll drink to that, and raise twenty."

There was a roar of 'here, here!' around the table and each man exuberantly called him until it came back around to Dean.

There was a moment where Jo met his eyes over the table and there was an electric pause, a silent contact amidst the noise and alcohol. Something stirred in Jo's stomach and she swallowed, shivering.

Dean smirked, eyes never leaving hers, and slid forward a chip.

"I like the sound of that deal," he purred. There was a glint in his eye that made her nervous.

Now it was Jo's turn. She was in something of a dilemma. If she folded she was liable to Dean's taunting for the rest of her living life. If she went on and was forced to take off her top, well…

She didn't even want to go there. Was she _really_ that confident?

Maybe she'd had too much alcohol. She closed her eyes and shook her head, resigned.

"God. You'll need to really convince me for that one. Raise."

She shoved in a few chips and all the men blithely called in response.

"Fine," spat Jo finally, gazing in an intimidated way at the substantial pot of money.

"Fine. But if you lose," she leant forward and pointed directly at a certain tall brunette playing pool on the other end of the room.

"You have to go and make out with that guy over there."

Dean paled, despite himself. Jo watched him hesitate.

"He'd punch me in the face," he replied meekly, imploringly. Jo spread her arms, devilish. She enjoyed watching his discomfort.

Then he snapped, that confident mask was back in place and his jaw set.

"I hope you're warm, sweetie," chuckled Dean with a dirty smile.

How this little hustling conspiracy had turned into strip poker she didn't quite know, but she swallowed as the turn came. King of hearts.

She wasn't even paying attention to the cards. All that mattered was making Dean as uncomfortable as possible. Eventually she found herself to be all-in and watched with the beginnings of foreboding as the river came.

Three of hearts.

Her heart constricted. She didn't have anything. Not one thing- not even a pair.

Dean wasted no time. He smacked down his two cards, a jack and an ace. Ten, jack, queen, king, ace. A straight. Jo's heart fluttered and Dean seemed to pick up on her panic. He gave her a _'you brought this on yourself'_ sort of look as she pressed down her cards, lost for words. A six and eight of hearts.

It was only once she'd done that when she realised that she did, in fact, have something. Five cards of the same suit. A flush of hearts.

The panic ebbed away to be replaced with inexplainable triumph and she clicked her teeth together in an ecstatic smile, watching Dean's face fall.

"Pucker up, princess," teased Jo haughtily, inclining her head towards Sam, innocently hustling his way around on the pool table. Dean swallowed, incensed, and groaned.

"I totally can't believe you are making me do this," he whined, simultaneously disappointed at not having been able to see Jo take off her shirt and the prospect of doing anything remotely intimate with his little brother.

Somehow, Jo knew he would never be able to do it, but watching him drag his humiliated little ass over towards the pool table to the raucous laughter of the men was something she doubted she'd ever forget.


	3. Blackout

**A/N: Thankyou a tenfold for the reviews, questions & suggestions. They keep me going. **

**And here comes the plotline.**

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When Jo opened her eyes, she was momentarily convinced that she'd been hit by a freight train.

Every muscle was screaming. Her bones felt as if they'd been melted to a sort of molten jelly- every limb felt as if she'd been charred for a long period of time under an intense flame. To top it off she had the worst headache she'd had in years. A mind-numbing migraine. Quite frankly, she felt drunk, and she had absolutely no idea why.

"… the fuck?" she slurred groggily, pushing herself up into her hands to look around, head spinning.

She registered the sounds of the road- other cars and a humming engine. Her fingers curled around the leathery seats so she wouldn't go toppling into space.

"Morning, sunshine," said Dean cheerfully, looking over his shoulder back at her flushed face. The streetlights outside told her that it was still night-time.

"What the hell happened?" asked Jo, bringing a hand to her forehead as if that might ease the thumping, hammering pain.

"Jesus christ... Got any aspirin?"

"In the trunk," he replied shortly but made no move to pull over so they might be able to retrieve it. Jo groaned under her breath.

"You got pissier and pissier until the bouncers turfed you out. Hence the looking-like-shit right now."

Jo ignored the insult and narrowed her eyes, blinking.

"I had one beer," she argued pointedly, making an effort to speak coherently but her traitorous tongue caused the words to blur together at the edges. Not a particularly convincing argument.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jo. But from what I saw, you chugged down a good three before you went out on your own."

"On my own? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You took a few more into the ladies' and didn't come out again. We eventually found you out the front, on your ass, pissed as a freakin' mule. By the sounds of it, you still are. Go to sleep."

"Like hell," replied Jo, feeling blindly for the window. "Pull over."

Dean didn't reply, but indicated as an emergency bay loomed up ahead on the right and pulled to a stop. Sam turned around and watched her, scrutinizing. Jo discarded her jacket, felt for the handle, missed it a few times, finally found it and wrenched open the door.

Staggering, and almost unable to control her protesting legs, she made her way toward the very edge of the road, near the bushes, and commenced to empty her protesting stomach until she felt positively sick and feeble. What the fuck?

With a groan she patted down the pockets of her jeans, feeling around for her mints. Eventually she found a tin of Eclipse and habitually pulled them out, taking two to rid her mouth of the taste of alcohol and vomit. She dusted her hands on her shirt.

A warm, sticky substance across her shirt made her pause, and she drew back, observing her fingers. In the dark she couldn't see, but she brought it to her face, immediately recognizing the strong scent of blood.

"What the fuck?" she repeated for the umpteenth time, this time aloud.

"Jo?" a tentative voice asked, reaching for her arm, forcing her around. The brightness of the streetlights was dizzying. Sam's concerned face swam into view.

Sam felt the sticky warmth of her shirt and paused, concern turning into bemusement as he observed his hand. Immediately he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into the light of the street-lamp, fingers curling around the material of her shirt and extending it horizontally. The light revealed the bloodstains running down the material of her top.

"What the hell happened?" exclaimed Sam, alarm etched on every line of his face.

Jo mumbled feebly, unsure of herself.

"Aspirin," she demanded instead, her mind not really feeling up to any challenges. He could wait.

"Sam?" asked Dean, making his way over from where the Impala was parked in the bay.

"What's wrong?"

"Jo," Sam explained immediately, though Jo could barely hear him from the blaring in her ears. "She's got blood all down her shirt and arms. It's everywhere, Dean."

She could hear indistinct sounds of concern and surprise. Outrage, maybe- she couldn't be sure. Dean's hot hands reached out and pulled her face towards his. His green eyes bored into hers.

"What happened?" he insisted, forceful.

Jo didn't care how many deep and meaningful looks he gave her right now. At the moment, only two syllables mattered.

"As-pirin," she enunciated clearly, furrowing both brows. Dean's expression became determined.

"Jo…"

"Freaking hell, Dean!" she exclaimed, spurred to exasperation. "I'm not saying a damn thing until you haul your ass over to that car to get me some Panadol!"

He glared at her, and she glared right back. After a moment he seemed to understand she wasn't budging and with an obliging sigh and a hard stare he turned, trudging over towards the trunk.

Jo slumped. The effort involved in even that short confrontation drained her. She felt Sam's strong hands on her waist, awkwardly attempting to keep his distance while simultaneously keeping her standing. Any other time, she'd have laughed.

Dean came back not long later with a packet of Paracetamol and a bottle of water, both of which Jo snatched from him with only the briefest mumbled thank-you.

She moved back towards the Impala and they followed her. Dean was immediately at her side whenever her knees gave way, physically lifting her back onto her feet. They settled her on the back seat of the Impala, her legs facing out of the car, watching her rigidly.

After a moment her vision became slightly clearer and she blinked up at them, headache ebbing.

"I don't ever drink like that," said Jo finally, redemption weighing heavily on her mind.

"You know... I never drink like that."

"What do you remember?" asked Sam softly, cutting her off.

"Uh. Kicking Dean's ass at poker… the guys laughing… I was set to be dealt out at the end of the hand… that's about all."

Dean flushed slightly. Jo suspected he wished she'd managed to forget about that particular part of the night. She grinned haphazardly at the floor.

"And the blood?" asked Dean, referring to her bloodied arms and torso.

Well, that had her stumped. Jo blinked up at him, raising a hand to block out the infernally bright light.

"Um," she mumbled, pulling back her shirt to reveal her toned stomach, smeared slightly with blood but free from any lesions or wounds. Jo tugged her shirt back down and shrugged.

"Not my blood. I don't know- it's like… like I've lost a few hours. Christ, I can't even remember the second beer."

Den paused.

"Well…. What the_ fuck_?"

"Yeah," agreed Jo, pressing a palm to her forehead and wincing.

"No, really," repeated Dean with obvious sincerity. "What the fuck, Jo? How can you lose all concept of time after the first beer, sobriety by the second, and wake up in the gutters soaked in blood on the third? Christ, you hardly even spoke to us once you'd started yourself up."

"I'm sorry," she replied vehemently, feeling somewhat hard done by. "It wasn't as if I had any say in the matter,"

"Someone's obviously been hurt, Jo," he retorted viciously. "Someone might have died tonight. We don't know."

"Leave her be, Dean," put in Sam finally as Jo was rendered lost for words.

"She clearly doesn't have any comprehension of what happened tonight. It might have been possession, third person control, something like that."

Dean looked irate, but nodded stiffly. Jo gazed up at them in silence.

"Look," said Sam finally with a shrug.

"Come stay in our motel room for the night at very least. You won't be able to drive home alone. We can try and sort this out tomorrow."

Jo swallowed the bile pooling in her throat, eyelids already fluttering. She didn't have the energy to argue right now, and she didn't really give a shit whose bed she slept in, or how hard the floor was. All that mattered was sleep.

"Sounds like a plan," she mumbled, voice hoarse from the effort of keeping herself going.


	4. Hysterics

**A/N: You know how great it is to wake up to an inbox full of reviews? Made my day. Thanks, guys! **

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Jo woke in the morning to blinding lights and yet another ear-splitting headache. The repercussions of a hard night out. Someone was calling her name, but the warmth of the blankets was far too comfortable to give up at the moment.

With a moan of protest, she snuggled deeper into the bed.

"Jo!"

Cold hands gently touched her cheek and she jerked awake, the iciness of the fingers startling. She stared up to be confronted by the face of Dean, who grinned back at her.

"Would you like some hair-of-the-dog?" he offered in an imperialistic sort of way, dangling a bottle of mid-strength over her face. No wonder his fingers had been so bloody cold.

She groaned and shook her head, rubbing her eyes and hauling herself up, habitually kicking off the blankets. She'd gotten a majority of the nausea out of her system last night, but the headache refused to budge.

"Hungover?" Sam asked from across the room with an airy smile which immediately made her want to go and kick him somewhere tender. Lucky for him, he had a laptop on his knees, so she settled for a callous glare.

"Yeah," she replied, getting to her feet with a catlike yawn. Dean chuckled.

The paracetamol had been left by her bedside table and she immediately reached out for it, craving some sort of relief. She knew that paracetamol was supposed to be bad for hangovers, but she really didn't care. If her liver decided to shut down, well, she'd jump that hurdle when she came to it.

"So, we figured we'd head back to the steakhouse and have a poke around in that alleyway," said Dean, eyes flickering across her face. Jo's fingers immediately rose to wipe away the smudged eyeliner that she knew must be giving her a panda-like sort of appearance. Dean smirked.

"I'm coming," she replied immediately, though the thought of crawling back into bed was incredibly tempting.

"Just let me take a shower before we do. I smell like old fat men."

"That's what tends to happen when you play poker," noted Dean in a _'told you so'_ sort of way.

"You can talk," replied Jo immediately, breaking into a reminiscent smile. "Don't think I've forgotten what happened between you and Sam-antha back at the tavern…"

Dean managed to look simultaneously chastened and humiliated, flushing as Sam's head jerked up, glaring at them like a pissed-off cat might eye a defenceless mouse.

"Don't speak of that again," snapped Dean in a forbidding sort of way, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I have a .44 in my pocket loaded with rock salt and I'm not afraid to use it…"

"Oh, come on, Dean," teased Jo relentlessly, the pain of the headache marginalized somewhat by the pleasure she found in taunting them both.

"You can't spell 'Winchester' without the…"

"Spell 'incest' and I swear to god you'll wake up in three months time tied up somewhere in Utah," he growled quite seriously, incensed, the redness on his cheeks intensifying. Jo began to laugh helplessly, shrugged and picked up the towel at the base of the bed that had once been Dean's.

"Whatever. I'm having a shower."

It made her feel good to know that she now had something to blackmail him with for the rest of his mortal life. Jo shut the door and stripped out of her clothes, surveying herself in the mirror. Her face was ashen, arms smeared with blood, eyes bloodshot from the alcohol over-indulgence. She shivered, smoothed a hand through her hair and stepped into the shower.

Once the warm water hit her skin she didn't want it to stop and almost fell back to sleep under the warm jets of the showerhead. She shampooed her hair a good three times to rid it of the scent of blood and cigarettes, scrubbing down her arms and legs until they felt raw, turning it back on cold for a few seconds before turning off the water altogether to properly wake herself up.

No sooner had she wrapped the towel around herself, the door swung open and Dean stepped into the bathroom.

She blinked expectantly at him, but he drew a breath, pausing for a moment to blatantly eye her down. She suspected he had hoped to catch her before she had the chance to grab the towel.

"Jacket," he said finally, brushing past her to retrieve the jacket draped over the sink.

He slid past her side-on, so that for a moment in time their bodies were only a hair's breadth away in the confined space of the bathroom, and she felt the ripple of his breath across her skin. She huffed as goosebumps spread across her arms, and subconsciously drew the towel tighter around herself.

Before he could leave she extended a hand and caught his arm, tugging him back. Dean paused and turned his head over his shoulder to face her.

"Have a singlet I could borrow?" she asked, inclining her head sheepishly down to the blood-stained shirt on the floor.

Dean quirked his eyebrows mischievously and nodded, eyes flickering back and forth across her face.

"Sure thing. Wait a sec."

He left and came back a moment later with a plain white singlet that she knew would be a little too big for her, but she had the jacket in the car she could wear over the top.

"Thanks," she offered awkwardly as he passed her the shirt.

"No worries," he replied huskily, hitching both brows again, giving her another brief stare-down before he stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door.

This time, Jo flicked the lock behind him. Sometimes he was too damn transparent for his own good.

She dropped the towel and re-dressed herself in her bra and jeans, relishing in the clean feel of her skin. The singlet that Dean had given her was a bit big and hardly fit her across her shoulders, but it was passable and she stepped out of the bathroom with a shrug, tying up her hair into a ponytail as she did so.

**ooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Dean parked the Impala across the road from the steakhouse, on the curb. It was early in the morning, and the traffic was relatively light, so they had no trouble getting into the alleyway unseen. Jo's stomach dropped significantly as she caught sight of the blood trailing across the floor in thick maroon masses and smeared across the walls.

The blood continued to pool in larger puddles, ending beside the garbage bin where what was once a human body lay, ripped from head to toe.

Jo had to forcibly stop herself from dry-retching.

"Oh god," she gasped, closing her eyes and turning her head. "You don't think that I…?"

"Well, if you did, you did a thorough job of it," replied Dean in a sickly sort of way, leaning over to observe the various internal organs that seemed to have been pulled from their place.

"Hey," said Sam suddenly, observing the masses of blood leading into the alleyway with narrowed eyes.

"Check this out."

Jo followed his gaze and her eyes fell upon what looked like one, single, enormous paw print in the middle of the carnage. It was similar in appearance to a dog paw, but in size, was comparable to a small bear.

"Oh, fantastic," said Dean dryly. "So, basically, we're playing a big, sadistic, lethal game of _'Blues Clues.'_"

Jo's mouth twitched, somewhat relieved that all signs pointed to the fact that she hadn't been the perpetrator of the crime.

"I'm going to jot this down on my Handy-Dandy Notepad," he added, withdrawing a nonexistent notebook to write on with a nonexistent pen, wearing a thoughtful expression. Jo grinned, unable to help herself.

"Stop messing around, Dean," suggested Sam, obviously not sharing their amusement.

"We'd better go before someone finds us and adds another line to your criminal record."

That seemed to sober him up, and within no time they were back in the Impala and on the main road.

"So, what are we thinking?"

"Looks like all the work of a hellhound… but for the fact that we both saw the thing back in the Fawcett house, and they're visible only to the things they hunt. And, anyway, they usually only hunt the people who've sold their soul, bring them to hell. None of these people seem to be particularly special, so it doesn't look as if any of them have made deals. Still doesn't explain your missing memory," Dean mused with a shrug, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

"Or, it could be a Black Dog," added Sam as an afterthought, "But they're more like omens, and their victims usually suffer from random heart attacks, car accidents, that sort of thing, rather than directly being ripped to shreds. But, given what happened in South Wyoming, I'm guessing that whatever it is, it has free license to do whatever it wants."

"I guess it wouldn't hinder the demons to have a few hellhounds climbing out of hell too," said Dean thoughtfully.

"Why don't you guys slow down and tell me what the hell you're going on about?" suggested Jo, confused and frustrated. South Wyoming? Climbing out of hell?

There was an awkward silence, each brother expecting the other to do the explaining. Once the silence had stretched on long enough, Sam finally decided to do the work, sighing and rolling his head. He explained briefly about Colt's iron devil's trap, the Wyoming cemetery, Jake, and the gates to hell. He omitted any of the more personal parts that he or Dean had to play, opting just to tell the things that needed telling. He explained about how the Colt was the key to hell and how Jake had opened the crypt, unleashing something of an apocalypse, how John had climbed out with the demons, how Dean had managed to retrieve the Colt and shoot the Yellow-Eyed Demon in the heart.

When he finished, Jo let the silence fall, taking a moment to digest the information.

"Mom told me the Roadhouse burnt down," she added in a hoarse voice.

Dean nodded. "Demons," he replied shortly with a shrug, as he had no other explanation for that particular incident. He wasn't omniscient, but all signs pointed that way.

Jo sighed and put a hand to her head, gazing wistfully at the back of Dean's chair. Suddenly the random outburst of hunting opportunities didn't seem like such a godsend.

"So, what about our Mr. Fawcett?" asked Dean finally, looking over at Sam who was staring absently out the window.

"We loaded the dog full of salt but there's no saying it couldn't have come back after we left."

"There was nothing in today's paper," he replied with a shrug. "But then, it would have only happened last night. Maybe we should drop around and see if everything's okay."

"Wouldn't hurt," replied Dean absently, hitting the indicator to drive back towards the Fawcett apartment.

When they arrived, it was immediately evident that nothing was well. There was an ambulance out the front and the police already had 'crime scene' tape all over the place.

"Looks like it came back to finish the job," noted Dean. Jo swallowed. Two attacks in one night- and they still hadn't explained Jo's missing hours.

The three of them got out of the Impala just as a stretcher was being carried down the stairs, a white blanket laid over the immobile occupant. The stretcher bumped somewhat on the descent and an arm flopped out from underneath the blanket. Even from afar, Jo could see the scratched and mangled flesh before they managed to push it back under the cover.

There was a young blonde woman sobbing hysterically next to the police officer as the paramedics stowed the body in the ambulance. The police officer looked grim.

Dean nudged Sam in the ribs and inclined his head in the direction of the officer. The two men immediately turned and made for the Impala. Puzzled, Jo followed.

"What?" she asked immediately upon entering the Chevrolet again, slightly irritated as Dean started the ignition.

"Well, sweetheart," he replied with a grunt as he backed out of the alleyway. Jo cocked a brow.

"At the moment I'm at the very height of America's Most Wanted, so it's probably for the best if I leave my interrogation to Sam. For the coroner. Easier and safer that way."

"Since when have you ever opted for 'easier and safer?'" replied Jo with a scathing snort.

Dean shrugged. "Since Folsom Prison. I'm not gonna rot in some cell for the rest of my life when I have Sam around to do the dirty work."

Sam's knuckled tightened on the window ledge and Jo watched curiously as his expression contorted in one of momentary anguish before he could slip his icy mask back on. He noticed Jo watching him in the rear-view mirror a moment later and his eyes narrowed slightly before he offered her a prompting smile. Jo averted her eyes, though she still had the strong feeling that the brothers were omitting something, something serious, important. It was gnawing at her.

"Well, what now?" she asked with a huff, running fingers through her still-damp hair.

"Yeah, well, that's sort of the question of the minute right now," replied Dean without rancour, driving aimlessly down the main stretch.

"Right up there with _'Who framed Roger Rabbit?' _For now, at least, I think breakfast would be a good place to start. Somewhere where Jo can't get her hands on anymore alcohol."

Sam snorted derisively in the passenger seat.

"Hello, Pot, meet Kettle?" he replied in a withering way, earning himself a halfhearted punch to the shoulder by Dean as he pulled in and parked the Impala on the curb parallel to an urban café.


	5. Malignance

**A/N: Thankyou so much for all the reviews, comments, suggestions, critiques! They're much appreciated, and they make my day. **

**Be patient loves- the romance is yet to come.**

* * *

Upon taking a seat at the café, Jo immediately found something to channel her rampant thoughts. She enthusiastically took up the bread knife and began swinging it through and around her fingers, flicking it down each time to hit the table with a resounding 'tap' noise. 

Tap… tap… tap…

Sam gritted his teeth and staunchly chose to observe the menu, but Dean was not so civil, eyeing the knife with the greatest distaste.

"Do it once more, Jo… I'll stick it where the sun don't shine."

Jo eyed him mirthfully. "Dean, it's Chicago. The sun doesn't shine here anyway."

Dean continued to stare daggers at her until she relented and obligingly set down the bread knife with a sigh, dragging the menu towards her.

She was tossing up between pancakes and waffles when a brisk buzz in her pocket alerted her that her phone was ringing and Gia Farrell's _'Hit Me Up'_ began to play.

Ignoring the brothers' mutual looks of amusement and disgust, she flipped open the phone.

"It's Bobby," she said, pushing back her chair to stand. "I'd better take it."

The buzz of the café was distracting so she walked out onto the veranda before connecting the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jo, it's Bobby."

There was a pack of teenage girls by the verandah, giggling shrilly to themselves about something and squealing occasionally in shared mirth.

"Damn it," she snapped irritably at them before putting the phone back to her ear.

"Just a second, Bobby."

She made her way down the stairs into the deserted parking lot before she tried to speak again. The silence was almost deafening compared to the noise of the café.

"Yeah?"

"I've got a lead on your case. Still in Chicago?"

"Yep. What've you got?"

"The murders- the first five, at any rate, I haven't got around to the last two- all five victims were fully fledged hunters. Demon hunters, specifically."

"And they were all in Chicago? Coincidentally? At the same time?"

"Well, not coincidentally. Look, it's a little difficult to explain…"

"If this is about the Wyoming, gates-to-hell thing, I know about that. The Winchester boys showed up a few days ago and they've been, ah, lending a hand since then."

"Oh, good. Well, be careful, Jo. Don't let yourself be caught off guard. Hellhounds can be nasty little bastards."

"You think it's a hellhound, then?"

"Looks like that way. But anyway, you and the fellas should go check out the other two murders, see if they have any connection to hunting or any other anomalies."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't mention it. Look after yourself, Jo."

With that, the line went dead and she stowed the phone into her pocket. Immediately she felt the sudden sense of disquiet, as if there was something watching, something waiting. Jo whirled, cautious, to survey the area. She saw, or more felt a movement amongst the shadows of the car park before the silent vigilante seemed to recede back into the darkness.

Jo allowed one more swift look before she shrugged it off and made her way back towards the café.

She found a latte and a breakfast bar waiting for her, courtesy of Dean- and while she'd have preferred pancakes, she was grateful and spent a good five minutes on the coffee alone.

"So, anyway, what did Bobby have to say?' asked Dean finally, having bought a cappuccino for himself, trying to get it down as fast as he could without burning his throat.

"Victims one, two, three and four were all mauled to bits by the same beastie, and were all demon hunters. Bobby's thinking a renegade hellhound."

"I'm still thrown by the fact that we were able to see the thing," he noted with furrowed brows, finishing his cappuccino with a flourish and immediately licking his scalded lips.

"Maybe.. because… it's not targeting? It's just mauling any hunter that gets in the way? Which would explain why it was visible to us," mused Dean with a shrug.

"That's pretty clever, Dean," admitted Jo ruefully. "I'm used to the intelligence coming from Sam, not you."

Dean replied by patting the seat of the café seat fondly with a blithe grin.

"It's because I'm sitting on my _'thinking chair…'_"

"No more 'Blues Clues' references please, Dean," replied Jo with a wince. "The thought of you watching Nickelodeon wounds my soul."

Sam began to laugh and Dean looked mildly ruffled, but shrugged again and reclined back in his chair with a lion-like yawn.

"Anyway, my car is still sitting down near that park somewhere, so if you boys can drop me there I can go home, get showered, and change. I'll call you and we can go have a bit of a heart-to-heart with Ms Fawcett."

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

When Jo finally parked her car in the garage, the thought of the shower was probably a bit too tantalizing for her own good, and she half jogged out of the car park into reception, keys already in hand.

The hotel manager, a balding, middle aged man named Leslie, looked up briefly over his moustache and acknowledged her with a curt nod before returning to his paperwork.

"Hi, Leslie," she hailed briefly, and he replied with a mumbled hello before she slipped down the corridor and into her room.

She was undressed before she'd even entered the bathroom, kicking off her jeans and pulling off Dean's singlet with a relish, the hangover now gone but the smell of motel beds and alcohol still lingering on her skin. Funny how hangovers seemed to remind her of her idiocy for as long as they possibly could. She shook her hair out across her shoulders and absently turned the water on in the shoulder, humming to herself.

She stepped into the warmth of the shoulder, sighing audibly in relief as the water massaged her skin. For Jo, showering was like a little glimpse of heaven. Some people liked food, alcohol, sex- Jo liked showering. It was a personal fetish.

Midway through conditioning her hair, the light in the bathroom began to flicker- not a very good sign no matter the situation. She could have passed of off as merely a faulty light bulb, but the temperature around her began to drop substantially and any part of her body that was not being hit with the hot water became frigidly cold.

The light died completely and in the foreboding dark she knew immediately that something was wrong. Her hands moved instinctively for her pocket, but she was instantly reminded of the fact that she was showering, and thus currently naked.

Smart, Jo.

She turned off the shower jets and paused a moment to assess the situation. The hairs began to prickle on the base of her neck and she warily pushed open the shower door to grab the towel, using only the light of the moon to guide her.

Footsteps. Shuffling- like padded paws or soft-shod toes, moving with only the faintest noise behind her. Jo whirled to look, but there was nothing but that disquieting emptiness, and that quiet clear noise of approaching feet.

In the inky darkness there was a deeper dark, like a ripple amongst the black. And then the sound of breathing- very, very close by, as if the shadows themselves had a throat and were panting on her neck. Then it wasn't just the wind, there was someone behind her- she was sure of it.

Instinctively Jo swung around, the fingers fanned so she might backhand the intruder. Fingers closed around her forearm to block the blow and she found herself staring the hotel manager, Leslie, directly in the face. In the light of the moon, the whites of his eyes were shining sinisterly. Jo yelped in surprise.

"Leslie?" she exclaimed, jerking away from him in disgust.

Leslie's eyes began to dilate, but they did not stop. His pupils continued to expand until they were inhuman, unnatural, and then onwards until both eyes were completely black.

"Don't worry, Jo," he said in an oddly exuberant voice, baring his teeth in a malign grin. He stepped forward towards her.

"You won't remember a thing. I promise."

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Around half an hour later Dean's cell began to ring as he laid waiting on his bed in silence, watching Sam tapping away on his laptop. He could definitely go for some 'Magic Fingers' right now. Watching Sam geeking around was a miserable solution to boredom.

Dean flicked open his cell. "Yeah?"

"Hey, it's me," Jo's voice rang clearly in his ear. He grunted in acknowledgement, prompting her to continue.

"Listen, I have some something. Douglas Fawcett and his wife, Tanya, are both demon-hunters as well. Nothing much else to connect the murders but it's probably worth going to talk to her to see if she knows anything that could help."

"And you know this… how?" replied Dean a little incredulously, hitching his brows at the ceiling as he collapsed back onto his bed.

"Mum told me, they've been through the roadhouse before," lied Jo effortlessly, huffing through the phone.

"But if she's seen the thing, it means beastie is coming some time today, so you better get off your ass and come pick me up before she's turned into dog chow."

"Alright, okay. I'll tell Sam and we'll be over in a few minutes."

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

The lady who opened the door was very tired, and in Dean's opinion, rather good looking. Unfortunately she had the whole grieving widow sort of vibe around her, which was something of a turnoff.

"Hi," said Dean finally as she eyed them suspiciously, prompting them to speak.

"I'm Dean, this is Jo, and my brother Sam. We're hunters, and we'd like to talk to you about your husband."

The woman brought a hand to her temple but seemed to accept them at face value and nodded, stepping back to let them in. Dean inclined his head shortly and Dean made his sheepish little apologetic face. Jo seemed to connect immediately with the woman, extending a hand to touch her arm without a word, acknowledging in that little gesture all the shared grief.

Immediately the woman began to sniffle as she led them into the lounge room, wiping the tears from underneath her eyes.

"My name is Tanya. Please, sit down."

They did so and allowed a moment or two to settle before Tanya sat down on the footrest opposite, fronting all three up at once. Jo leaned forward, imploring.

"So, what happened last night?"

Tanya shrugged listlessly.

"It was around… maybe… two or three in the morning. We'd already been up once before, there'd been someone in the house…"

Dean and Sam shifted slightly on the spot but Jo remained unwaveringly still, observant, almost uncharacteristically quiet.

"Anyway he was up again, but he didn't wake me so I assumed there was nothing of… of note, happening. Then he yelled out and I got up and he was on the lounge room floor and there was this enormous black dog above him, and he was choking on his own blood, scratched to an inch of his life or less and then the thing vanished. I called the cops, told them it was a Doberman, because vanishing black dogs don't tend to gel well with the authorities these days. But his windpipe had been bled out from the inside and the coroner had no clue, of course."

"You know what it was?" asked Sam, cocking his head. The woman was holding up surprisingly well for somebody whose husband had just choked to death on his own bodily fluids. The lady shook her head.

"We're guessing hellhound or black dog, to cut a long story short," said Dean bluntly. "It's the sixth murder within four weeks. Douglas filed a report two days ago to the authorities about a stray black dog, yes?"

Tanya nodded.

"Twenty four hours later… well, it's the same sort of deal, every time. Thing is, if you've seen the thing, that means it's coming for you tonight and unless you let us help you you're going to end up just like your husband did."

She seemed a little overwhelmed at that, but once again seemed to take their word for it and nodded a little tentatively.

"Great," said Dean, rubbing his palms together. "So…"

Jo immediately, and somewhat subtly, made her move on the situation.

"We need equipment, at very least," said Jo finally, getting to her feet and laying her hands on her hips.

"Salt doesn't seem to come to much good on these suckers, so…"

"What was it was it that Darrow used back in Rosedale?" Dean asked Sam hurriedly, clicking his fingers as if that would assist in bringing the memory back to mind. "Goosefrapa…?"

"Goofer Dust," corrected Sam dryly, hitching an eyebrow. Dean nodded and clicked his tongue.

"There's a bar just out of Chicago, down to the east of Navy Pier. It's called something like 'Diamondview,' and it's a hunter's pitstop, so you'd probably be able to dig something out there," said Jo coolly, unperturbed by the urgency of the situation.

Dean looked at her quizzically.

Jo shrugged. "I worked at the Roadhouse, I know these things. Trust me, Dean. I'll stay here and we can salt the house, hold the fort until you get back, so to speak. Do you have the pistol?"

"Yes, but you can't have it," replied Dean defensively in the manner a small boy might defend a treasured trinket. Jo appraised him only with a vaguely pissed-off expression of amusement.

After a moment's pause, Dean huffed and shrugged, taking the Beretta from its place at his waist and handing it to her handle first.

"If you jam it, the binding-and-gagging-in-Utah threat still stands," he added as a precautionary measure as he and Sam moved out the door. Tanya smiled as they left, but Jo didn't. She could hear them walking down the stairwell and waited until she could hear the snap of the door closing down the bottom before she moved away.

"They're two interesting sort of boys," said Tanya in an effort at making conversation.

Jo turned in a distracted way as if seeing the other blonde for the first time. Jo tilted her head in acknowledgement and ran a hand along the top of the lounge.

"Huh. Guess so," she purred distractedly, eyes roving over the room around them. Every inch of the leather, the carpet, the benches, the tiles, the walls…

"So, uh, do you think we should… start salting the windows and doors?" suggested Tanya half-heartedly in a tone that suggested she was new on the hunting scene.

Jo met her eyes rigidly for a good few moments, the intensity of the stare causing Tanya to squirm involuntarily on her seat. Then, unexpectedly, Jo broke into a twisted grin.

"No, I don't think so," she hissed, locking the door behind her.


	6. Mind Games

**A/N: Thanks again for all the reviews!**

**Okay, this is a transition chapter, so it's a bit shorter. I promise, in the next one the action, plot AND the romance will pick up quite a lot. It will be longer, too. Hang tight. **

* * *

Jo felt as if she were climbing out of an abyss.

She was swimming in an inky dark black, sightless and soundless, smothered from the world around her. It was as she'd been stuck here, in this limbo, for years… like an endless coma, the ultimate sleep. It was like a morose sort of kaleidoscope, with patterns and images made entirely out of blue and black and grey. Sometimes she would see something a little more defined, a little peek into reality. She saw Dean handing her a gun at one point before she was doused once again in the swirling depths, or snatches of voice, sometimes her own.

The transition into consciousness was slow and painful, as if she was scratching her way up the edges of a well, reality flooding over her slowly and gradually until with a jerk and a gasp, she felt her eyes snap open.

She was lying on her back, in an unfamiliar place. The tiles on her back were uncomfortable and cold and she rolled onto her knees, tense, eyeing her surroundings like a sedated lion in a foreign enclosure. It was quiet, eerily so, and she got to her feet without a noise so she wouldn't fracture the silence and alert some waiting antagonist.

She knew right away that she was missing a few hours. She felt bewildered, disjointed, and utterly confused. She didn't know where she was, she didn't know where she should be. Last thing she knew, she'd been showering, back at the motel room…

She turned a full circle and slowly made her way through the corridor in which she'd found herself and into the lounge room.

She saw only the fraction of movement somewhere on the floor, beside the lounge, as an enormous black hound fixed her with red eyes and melted into thin air, causing her to yell out despite herself. A vaguely familiar girl lay on the floor, parallel claw marks running down her leg as if she'd been mauled after trying to run, blood pooling around her mouth. She'd choked to death on blood.

"Fuck!" yelped Jo, hands immediately moving for her pockets where she found, to her immense relief, her cell phone. Her fingers were shuddering as she speed-dialled Dean and put the phone to her ear.

When he picked up, he sounded impatient. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?" she asked, voice shaking.

"Where the hell do you think I am? In the car, with Sam."

Jo paused as she struggled desperately for words.

"Look… Dean… I need you here. I don't know where I am."

"What do you _mean_, you don't know where you are?" exclaimed Dean loudly, causing her ears to ring with his vehemence. She winced.

"Shit, what part of it don't you understand, Dean? I'm in some random apartment with a dead chick on the carpet and three more hours I can't account for!"

She could hear Dean swearing on the other end and Sam, demanding to know what was happening.

"Look, we'll be there in about twenty minutes. Stay where you are. Salt the doors and windows. Don't leave the house. Goodbye, Jo."

The line went dead and it took her a few moments to finally shut her phone and stow it back in her pocket.

Jo looked nervously down at Tanya, so still and yet so pristine that if it weren't for the blood running from her mouth and thigh she could have been sleeping.

This had gone beyond coincidence now- twice she'd lost chunks of time into thin air and this time there was no alcohol to excuse it. Each time, someone had died, just yards from where she'd woken. A shudder ran down her spine and she crossed herself as if that might help provide some relief from the cold anxiety and guilt that was starting to gnaw at her insides.

She salted the doors and windows as he'd asked and spent the rest of the time in the Dining room, refusing to go anywhere need the immobile body lest she be overwhelmed with more nausea and guilt. She drummed her fingers on the table for the rest of the while and jumped to her feet the moment she heard the doorknob turning.

"Dean?" she exclaimed, moving swiftly through the kitchen and into the corridor, only to be met by one stony-faced Dean, who promptly splashed half a bottle of holy water straight in her face.

Jo gasped in immediately shock and shivered at the strange, wet sensation.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" she ground out through gritted teeth, dripping like a wet dog.

"Just a precaution," replied Dean smugly.

"Precaution, my ass! You didn't need to use half the freaking bottle!"

Dean shrugged, though he was still smirking like a contented cat that had cornered a mouse. "Just making sure."

"Yeah, whatever," replied Jo crossly, wringing out her shirt. "You just wanted to get my clothes wet."

"Where's Tanya?" said Sam stiffly, shouldering past Dean and arcing his neck to look down the corridor.

"The pretty blonde thing? She's on the floor on the lounge room," she replied slowly with a guarded expression, letting Sam and Dean walk past, though she tailed rather hesitantly behind them. She wasn't keen on re-entering the lounge.

"Was it the hound that did it?" asked Sam.

"Yes," replied Jo staunchly, squaring her shoulders and crossing her arms.

"Did you see it?" asked Dean quickly, turning to set his green eyes on her and putting a hand to her shoulder, demanding her attention.

"Yes," she replied again, narrowing her eyes.

"_Fuck_," growled Dean, his fingers tightening across Jo's shoulders, the intensity of his grip startling her.

"That means it's going after you next."

Jo cocked her head, staring him quizzically in the eye. He'd been acting strange ever since he'd taken up the hunt- erratic, passionate, a do-or-die sort of nature about him that was both stirring and frightening. It was as if this was necessary, or at least very important to both brothers. There was something about this whole thing that didn't quite fit. Something was missing.

Dean seemed to notice her scrutiny and let his hand drop, looking away as if stung. He turned his back and stalked off into the living room to observe the woman's body. Jo heaved a sigh and moved back again into the corridor to get her mind away from the situation at hand. She observed a photo on the mantelpiece of that woman and the strangely familiar looking man. Douglas Fawcett. Of course.

There were strange books on the bookshelves. Even without any prolonged searching she could tell that this couple were demon hunters- Black Dogs, Demonic Omens, Exorcisms, the whole nine yards. She straightened as Dean and Sam walked back into the hallway.

"We'd better beat it before anyone finds us," said Dean gruffly. "I'd like this one to be pinned to another dog attack, thank-you. I don't need any other felonies to put to my name. C'mon, Jo," he insisted, ushering her from the room and towards the stairwell.

"Where are we going?" she asked, blinking back at him.

"To the car," he replied shortly.

"For what?"

Dean shrugged. "To question the crap out of you."


	7. Distortion

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews!**

**This story is starting to enter the backstretch now. I hope you enjoy this chapter, because it was very very hard to write. xD **

**Thanks Tigger101 for the constant compliment, question and critique- you help me correct the things I always tend to miss. Thanks CrazyBitch106, p3karen and Jewely2951 for the unwavering love. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. **

**And so the plot thickens. Enjoy.**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

In the car, Jo felt as if she were being hit repeatedly with a mental mallet. Their interrogation was fierce, and perhaps somewhat unfair, as she found herself answering only with a continuous stream of 'I don't know' or 'I can't remember.' By the end her nails were almost piercing the hide of the leather seats with her agitation- Dean was becoming increasingly frustrated with her lack of memory and subconsciously wreaking emotional havoc on Jo's nerves.

"So you are positive- one hundred percent- that it was all the hound's doing?"

"I saw the thing, didn't I?" she snapped back impatiently, but found herself wringing her hands. "Directly, at very least, yes- the dog killed the girl."

Dean was fishing distractedly in his jacket pocket for something, eventually drawing out a wooden charm on a string which he handed to her with a grave face.

"Here. Put it on, never take it off. It's a charm to ward off possession. Bobby gave it to us both in Minn once we got rid of the demon. If it's possession, it won't happen again, at any rate."

"What about you?" asked Jo immediately, though she slipped it over her head and under her shirt.

Dean didn't answer. Instead he turned away, turning the key to start up the Impala's ignition, before silently accelerating onto the road. Jo knew there would be an answer, but clearly Dean wasn't in the sharing mood. Jo eased back onto the seats, shivering from a deep-seated fear, gazing listlessly out the window.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Morning came quicker than Jo would have liked and she woke up while the world was still dark. She heaved a sigh and lay there on the floor, staring up at the ceiling which had a sort of macabre look about it in the shadows. Even as she watched, the sun rose above the horizon and the room was alight with those vivid pinks and oranges that often came with the rising sun.

Eventually she kicked off her blankets, and paused while on the floor to wriggle into the clothes she had prepared for today, a skirt and a singlet. Then, with perfect balance, she rolled onto her knees and up onto her feet.

She watched the brothers in their beds. They looked so soft, so untainted, while sleeping that it was difficult to comprehend they were the same men she knew.

Sam slept on his side, one arm extended beneath the pillow, one hand on top, legs entangled in the blankets, his breathing steady and calm and his eyes still, blissful and peaceful.

Dean slept like a tiger, on his belly, his back arched somewhat to protect his neck and head. Both hands were underneath the pillow- probably, Jo noted with a sly grin, holding the knife he always carried around. His legs were above the blankets, his breathing short and sharp. He was tense, alert, and if Jo didn't know better, she would have said he wasn't sleeping at all.

She noticed something funny after her close scrutiny- Dean had somehow turned his head sideways during the dark of night and had the pillow clamped in his teeth. He looked remarkably like a sulky, brooding puppy after a bad day.

She suppressed a snort and dug in her pocket for her cellphone, flipping it open to take a photo. The camera light flashed briefly, and Dean immediately jerked awake, tensing and twisting silently to appraise her with glazed, tired eyes.

".. what the fuck are you doing?" he growled, bringing a hand up to block the sunlight obscuring his vision. Jo hastily stowed the phone in her pocket, grinning wickedly.

"Nothing," she replied in a conspiring whisper so not to wake Sam.  
"Why are you up so early?" he asked in a hoarse voice, grumbling and turning onto his back, stretching his arms up above him with a yawn.

She shrugged. "Early bird catches the worm?"

Dean didn't reply. Maybe it was too early in the morning for him to process any figures of speech, but after a moment he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, staggering momentarily before he straightened and went to get himself a glass of water.

Sam woke before long, though he was much more aristocratic than Dean and greeted her with a 'good morning' before he sat up in his bed, rubbing his face.

It didn't take long for the day to wear on and they immediately, and wordlessly, set to work on the preparations for tonight. Dean retrieved the Goofer Dust that he and Sam had retrieved from the hunting bar the day before, and Sam was seated on the laptop. Midday.

"What the hell is that crap?" she asked incredulously as Dean began spreading the dust along the windows.

"Goofer Dust," he replied without turning his head.

"Looks like a heap of shit to me."

"Well yeah, but it works," he replied in a businesslike sort of way, moving towards the door to continue the meticulous sealing. "Repels hellhounds, at any rate."

"Hey," said Sam with the higher octave of voice which generally meant he'd found something of use, though it did inadvertently make him sound like an adolescent schoolgirl.

"What?" asked Dean, pausing midway through spreading the dust.

"_Hellhounds are creatures born from the misdeeds of hell-bound spirits, prophets and servants to the demons and archdemons of the underworld. Hellhounds are said to be lulled to rest by the sound of the anguish of the captive souls… They are able to surface in order to lay claim to souls promised to a demon. Hellhounds are said to live forever but are not immortal- they can be slain by the hand of the demon from whom they have been sent, and are forced to retreat to hell when they come into contact with platinum-wrought sterling_."

"Sterling? Sterling silver?" said Dean, now standing bolt upright by the door.

"I think so," said Sam with a shrug, though couldn't help to patronisingly add "…Unless they're talking about the author…"

"But seeing as we don't have a Mr. Bruce Sterling handy to hurl at the bitch, I'm going to assume they are talking about the silver. Are there any gun stores around here?" asked Dean.

Sam shut his laptop and got up from his bed, scratching his head, thoughtful.

"I guess there's bound to be. If not, I'll head on down to Diamondview."

"Hurry up, the last one came ahead of schedule, there's no saying this one won't too. Take care of the car, Sammy."

Sam didn't answer. Jo supposed it was sort of unwritten law among the brothers. Jo knew Sam would guard the Impala with his heart and soul- it wasn't worth facing Dean's fury if any harm should come to it.

It was only when Sam left the room that they both seemed to realise they'd been left alone together for the first time since that fateful evening at the Fawcett apartment. Jo could still recall the feeling of the Jericho cocked at her temple and his fingers at her throat.

"Awkward," said Jo finally in a sing-song sort of voice. Dean fixed her with that discerning, vaguely superior stare of his and leant against the door frame, the Goofer dust lying forgotten by his feet.

"You've come a long way since the Holmes job," he said finally, an effort at breaking the silence. Jo nodded.

"Thankyou."

"Aren't you going to say _'you have, too_?'"

Jo shrugged. "We both know you couldn't improve yourself if you tried, Dean," she replied dryly, in jest. Dean chuckled and briefly quirked both brows.

"Yeah, that's true…" he mused, staring off into space.

Jo grinned for the moment and they were once again left with the awkward silence that made Jo's hand twisted around the bedpost with sudden nervousness.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?" she said finally, eyes darting back and forth across his face.

"Didn't give me much of a chance there, but… sure. Shoot."

"Why didn't you ever call me?"

Dean paused and Jo knew he was probably regretting his decision to let her speak her mind. She was a little surprised that she'd posed that question and the nerves quickly doused that momentary surge of courage. She found her eyes darting to his feet.

"Honestly?"

She didn't reply. That went without saying.

"I never planned to. It was just another way to say goodbye, I guess. Silence is deafening sometimes, you know…"

"Damnit, Dean!"

"I know." Dean looked chastened, even remorseful, stepping forward towards her. Jo stepped forward too, anger beginning to spread like wildfire through her soul. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Has there ever been a time in your life when you've said that and meant it?"

"Jo…"

"Cut the crap, Dean! I was worried about you! You were dead, for all I knew!"

"Alright! Just calm-"

"Don't say it! Idiocy and insensitivity clearly runs in your bloodlines!"

Dean looked about ready to continue his remission, but those words stopped him in his tracks. His brows furrowed.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

"You wouldn't give a damn if I told you," she snarled softly, striding purposefully towards the door. She didn't know where she was going- but she needed to get away from him. He was infuriating.

"Jo!" he barked, startling her momentarily, attempting to block the way to the door. She stepped around him.

"You can't just walk away!"

She felt those vicelike fingers close around her forearm and jerk her backwards. Left without a choice, she turned to face him, chest rising and falling, those intense green eyes searching hers, as if they were riffling through her soul like an open book.

Despite the rage coursing through her veins she was still vividly aware of the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his breathing, and his closeness. She put forward her other hand to push him away, pressing at his chest- but his grip was far too steady, and she had only served to increase the body contact between them. Her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed, staring acidly up at him, the silence lengthening, becoming more poignant with every second.

He looked so adamant, so determined and demanding, never looking away. He was like a lion poised for the kill and she knew he wouldn't let her leave until she answered him. It was a battle of will and Jo knew that in the long run she could never win.

So she did the only rational, logical thing.

She closed the distance between them with a brisk step, reached up to his head, pulled him downwards and kissed him.

The cliché manner of the kiss seemed to momentarily surprise him and for a moment Dean didn't respond- for a few terrifying seconds she thought that he would rebuff her. But then she could feel him smirking arrogantly into her lips, and he obligingly met the kiss with a ferociousness of his own.

He was so close, she could feel the heat emanating from him like a radiator. Her heart beat a million miles as he started shepherding her backwards.

Eventually her back hit the wall and Dean's hand slid down to her waist, pulling her singlet up. They broke apart for a moment as he lifted it over her head again and was back again, fiery and passionate, the fury they'd been expressing not long before now turned to an enveloping lust.

She felt him lifting her, higher, until she was on tip-toes, and then higher still until eventually her feet could not touch the ground at all. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands sliding up the back of his shirt, feeling every inch of the muscle on his broad back. Dean's breath was quick and harsh, matching her own, hot and sweet against her cheek. She could smell the faint pepperminty scent of his breath and the cinnamon of his aftershave. Dean groaned, one hand easing under the material of her bra to rest against her skin and the other hand supporting her at her waist. Jo's fingernails scratched slowly down the length of his back and she felt him shiver.

It hit her very suddenly exactly what they were doing and her heart jerked to her throat. She laughed nervously and turned her head away as Dean leant in again to kiss her.

"Dean-" she choked, closing her eyes and grinning meekly over his shoulder.

"Mmm?" he mumbled, trailing kisses up the length of her neck.

"Sam's going to be back soon…"

Dean paused and they were still, but for the hammering of their hearts and the rhythm of their breathing. The silence lengthened and lengthened until it became almost painful.

Then, finally, Dean huffed and closed his eyes. He pulled his head back but made no other move to drop her.

"You're right. I'd better get on with it, then," he said in a forlorn tone.

"..What?"

Smack. What had once been passionate was now aggressive. In one practised, fluid movement, Dean pinned both her arms above her with his muscular forearm, pressing closer so she was wedged against the wall. His other hand went to her thigh to push her legs from his waist. She let them fall.

"Dean, what're you..?"

She attempted to free her hands from his arm but he would not move. After a moment of terse confusion, fear crawled down the length of her spine.

She stared him in the eyes, puzzled and frightened. His eyes were hard, demanding, hungry.

In a split second she made her decision, and jerked her leg forward to knee him in the groin. He shifted his thigh lithely and her leg skidded on the outside of his, trapping her with his legs on the inside of hers. She gasped in outrage.

"Jo, Jo, Jo," tutted Dean in a berating manner, shaking his head. He was wearing a wandering smile that she didn't recognise.

"Why do you always allow yourself to get into these situations of vulnerability? You should have known one of these days it was going to come back to bite you in the ass."


	8. Pandemonium

**A/N: Answers! Or some of them, at very least. If I've accidentally missed out on something I was intending to wrap up, feel free to let me know. This one was fun to write- but also very difficult.**

**Thank you so very much for the reviews! Without them I wouldn't be writing so quickly, if at all. Every review makes me grin like an idiot, so please, take a few minutes out of your time and I'll be very grateful.**

**Without further ado….**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"Stop being an idiot," protested Jo with a hiss, though she knew in the scheme of things her laments would go ignored, if noticed at all.

Just as she thought he might, Dean laughed, the noise rumbling like thunder through his chest, jarring her breathing momentarily- such was his closeness. Her lungs convulsed, her throat working hard for air.

"Not a very pleasant reception, I must say," breathed Dean thoughtfully, leaning back just far enough so he could survey her staunchly set jaw. He brushed a hand down her cheek. Jo turned her head, refusing to acknowledge his touch.

"See? I thought you might have missed me, Jo. You and I had such a heartfelt chat last time we met…"

Dean's eyes flared momentarily and the realisation hit her like a brick to the head. It certainly wasn't Dean talking at the moment- It was the Duluth demon, the selfsame demon that had taken over Sam not too long ago- the demon that had wreaked havoc on her mind with the sinister truth of her father's death. She stiffened immediately, repulsed.

Dean seemed to notice the recognition.

"Ah, there we go," he crooned, cocking his head. "I knew we would get there eventually. Underneath the blonde hair and those _impeccable _brown eyes, there's a brain hiding somewhere, I'm sure…"

"You son of a bitch," spat Jo, bristling. If she had any control over her limbs, she'd have slapped him as hard as her arms would allow.

Dean raised both brows and snapped out his leg momentarily, kicking her hard in the shin before he replaced it against her calf. Jo flinched but made no noise, riding out the sudden sting until it ebbed and left.

"Careful, Jo- That's my mother you're talking about," said Dean, flashing those flawless teeth in a deranged smile that didn't suit his handsome façade. Jo made a noise of disgust.

"It's never wise to say nasty things about one's parents. Don't you agree? Of course, sometimes it's necessary for the truth to be told…"

"Maybe now you'll understand even a fragment of the horror," said Jo, breathing heavily in order to get enough air into her body, "…of defeat. How does it feel, without dear old Lucifer there to hold your hand? You and the rest of the demons?"

Jo meant the words to hurt, but in all honesty, Dean didn't look stung at all. If anything, he looked pleasant, conversational, with that strange malign air that followed demons like the plague.

"Well, for one, Jo- Lucifer doesn't exist. What mindless dribble. It's a bit wounding to think that you would believe in something so incredibly naïve."

"Liar," snapped Jo, fire raging through her veins. She wanted to hurt him, this son of a bitch. She wanted to bite him, but the knowledge that it was Dean's body he was in control of held her back. "_None but Lucifer know that hell is hell…"_

"Nicely said, Jo, but complete crap," said Dean in his characteristically haughty demeanour, grinning scathingly.

"Quoting the Bible to prove that Lucifer exists is just about as credible as quoting Dr. Seuss to prove that the Cat in the Hat exists. _Fallen Angel,_ indeed…" Dean chuckled in obvious amusement. Jo gnawed at her tongue.

"I'm surprised couldn't see the truth earlier, Jo. Come now. The memory loss? The hellhounds? You of all people should know that hellhounds hardly have the mental capacity to chase their own tail, let alone murder people of their own accord. I've been under your nose and in your head for a good month now and you never even batted an eyelid…"

"I'm going to kill you," she snarled, exchanging a heated glare with Dean and refusing to break eye contact. "I swear to god I'm going to kick your ass."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't," he replied in a sing-song voice, eyes rolling back with an airy, delighted sigh that a small child might make after being presented with a large lollypop.

"But the fact remains that I still have you pinned up against the wall in your underwear, alone, in a dark apartment… Not to mention the hounds of hell at my beck and call and as you might remember they can be _devilishly _apt at finding fatal flaws… excuse the pun." Dean chuckled, still oozing a natural-born charisma and confidence that seemed to come with the territory. She doubted the demon would be able to knock that out of him even if he tried.

"Now, what does this remind me of?"

Dean paused dramatically, posed as if he were deep in thought, chewing absently on his lower lip. He snapped out of it fluidly as soon as the memory came and smiled wickedly at her, his face only inches away from hers.

"Oh- yes. That's right. 5:36pm, 1991… Friday the 13th of December, coincidentally. Call me a sucker for theatrics, Jo, but I just _love_ to pay attention to detail. It makes everything so much… clearer. Do you remember what happened that day, Jo?"

Jo refused him the satisfaction of an answer. She turned her head away and gazed stalwartly to the edge of the room.

Dean pressed a finger to her windpipe, making her head spin from the lack of oxygen, her throat and lungs convulsing violently, attempting to re-compensate for the lost air. She gasped.

"Come now, Jo, It's not polite to ignore people…"

"No!" she choked finally as her vision began to swim. Dean immediately let go of her throat and patted her condescendingly on the cheek.

"That's much better. Everything flows a lot smoother if you co-operate. Where was I?... Oh yes." He bared his teeth again in a dog-like smile that made him seem decidedly vicious. Cruel. It was a very good indicator.

"That was the day your daddy-o and Mr. John Winchester tried to chase after me like the stupid, contrived little heroes they think they are… Yes, I know I'm being redundant by calling your father '_stupid_,' that much is obvious, he was terrifyingly easy to kill…"

Incensed, Jo could do naught but spit in Dean's face with all the force she could muster. Indifferent, he lifted his free hand to his face to wipe it away, pursing his lips petulantly as he did so.

"Fuck you," breathed Jo, shaking with rage.

"If you want," he purred quickly with a dirty smirk, but wasted no time in returning to the matter at hand.

"I'm afraid I glossed over what really happened that fateful night, didn't I? Left out the specifics, those mangled juicy details? Well, you see, Jo- John was waiting, watching, for me of course, and your father was the worm on the hook, dangling there, all ripe for the picking. They thought they were being clever, you see, and they were, but John jumped the gun like an over-excited little schoolboy and left me right at your papa's elbow. So you know what I did? I jumped into your daddy's head, turned around, and shot at John. Bang, bang, bang, down he goes. But John, the cunning bludger, he stood up and fired them right back."

Dean paused then and shook his head dispassionately, clicking his tongue. Jo's eyes were brimming with tears and she had to fight with all her might to keep herself from dissolving into waves of grief. It was killing her, knowing this- Why couldn't he just leave her be?

"So your papa went down. John, well, he's a good shot, he'd hit your father in all the sweet spots. The arms, legs, shoulders, you know the drill. He didn't hit anything vital. All he needed to do was splash him with a bit of holy water and I'd be in the stratosphere in no time. But he didn't want to take that chance. He didn't want to risk me getting away. So he waited until your pa had his eyes closed to try and block out the pain, brought a .45 to his temple and Whammo! Gone! Your dad was blasted into the stratosphere instead, brains and all, and I was free to make my merry way back down to hell to see better days. And John, well, by the time he'd realised his little mistake, all he had to show for it was about 200 pounds of dead meat and an empty pistol castridge."

Dean began to laugh and by now Jo had no control over her emotion- the tears were running silently down her face and she was wracked with involuntary sobs, so fierce she was sure she was about to cough up a kidney. And he was pressing her so tightly against the wall that she felt her arms and legs beginning to numb.

"But tick tock, like you said, Sammy will be back soon and we can't have that. By the time Dean snaps out of it, he'll be a few yards short of a paddock, I can assure you. I don't need to send anything after him- he'll be gone in due course. It's much easier to chip away at the people he loves, and watch him fall apart like a lego toy. I watch from above, popcorn and all. It's very entertaining. Didn't you ever wonder why Dean showed up at this hunt, Jo? Hmmm? Coincidence?"

Jo gasped and shook her head, the tears staining her cheeks and her shirt, and Dean's forearm. She'd lost all the dignity she had long ago- given that she was pressed against the wall in her bra with her skirt hitched up somewhere around her waist and tears streaming down her face, there was no room to be compromising.

"Well, because he wants an answer, of course. What better way to help save his soul than to skip right to the root of the problem? He thinks if he can find a way to kill the… how do you say it… 'beastie,' then all of his problems will be solved! Lo and behold! A magical solution! Unfortunately for Dean, never mind how many packets of platinum-sterling bullets he carries around with him, there will always be more hounds in hell then there are bullets on earth."

"What the fuck are you on about, you sadistic little bitch?" she snapped waspishly, very much wanting to move away but without the room or strength to do so.

"Oh, didn't they tell you?" asked Dean delightedly, though Jo could tell very well he already knew they had kept Jo in the dark.

"Well, sweetheart, one of my father's gifted children- Jake, skewered young Samuel like a chicken kebab and Dean sold his soul to get him back. Touching, isn't it? Shame, he's only got ten months and thirteen days left until he's as good as canned mince. But tut tut, the clock is ticking and it's about time we draw out little conversation to a close. Because, you know, as fascinating as it has been, I need to get a move on. Sammy's next on my list of priorities, you see, and you're starting to bore me with all these tears and swear words."

"Go to hell," she hissed vehemently.

"Exactly," replied Dean with a swarthy nod and a hungry smile. Then without warning, he stepped away from her and bodily hurled her to the floor, startling her into a frightened yelp. She connected with the floorboards and the breath was knocked from her lungs as if she'd been stuck by a hammer. She looked up, eyes streaming with pain, to see a maniacal-looking Dean standing above her, eyes wide and gleeful as if there was no greater thrill on earth than killing for pleasure.

There was a scratching at the walls, resounding growls like the thrum of an old motor. A wind whipped past the windows and then stopped at the door and Jo watched in silent horror as an enormous, behemoth-like canine stepped over the unfinished line of Goofer Dust. Dean had never finished sealing the door. Goddamnit.

"Tell your daddy I say hello," chuckled Dean sardonically as the dog slowly stalked it's way towards Jo, moving like a wildcat stalking a defenceless mouse. Jo attempted to scramble back, perhaps get to her feet, maybe defend herself.

Then it was there with a fluid speed, moving from one place to the next in the space of a millisecond, and Jo felt a horrendous pain like a thousand stabbing knives on her thigh, like rusted fangs, a fetid rot that spread through her body and soul like poison. Her vision blurred almost immediately- and there was someone screaming, screaming like a banshee. It wasn't until she felt herself gasp for breath that she realised it was herself.

Bang. The sound of the door flying open. Sam's face had never been sweeter but Jo was positive that it was too late, even now. There was an unearthly pain spreading up her insides and everything seemed to be jarring, stopping. She was screaming again.

Dean looked surprised that Sam had returned so quickly but his face twisted into a snide snarl of malice. He stepped gloweringly towards Sam- but something stopped him.

It was as if he were gripped by a sudden seizure. Jo could half-see the awareness flicker in his eyes, determination overriding lust, blood ties overcoming hate. Dean was fighting the son of a bitch for all he was worth and Sam could see it, too.

Making a split-second decision, Sam reached down to the half-empty bag of Goofer Dust lying abandoned by the door where Dean had left it before, and with a grunt of excertion, hurled it at his face.

It connected with Dean's body in a haze of brown and his eyes dilated madly. He was squealing like a stuck pig, writhing to his knees, and then without warning a thick stream of blackness erupted from his mouth, fleeing through the vents and out into the daylight.

After a moment and through that thick rich throb of pain, Jo knew that the dog had vanished, too, for the moment at very least.

Dean was on the floor, looking nauseous and bewildered, exhaustion pressing at his features.

Jo wanted to wriggle over and kick him somewhere painful but she knew that she wouldn't have the strength if she tried. She was bleeding. She could feel it.

Sam looked down at Dean with a look of hard relief and partial disgust, his lip twitching.

"Nice to have you back," sighed Jo with the reserves of her strength before she succumbed to instinct and fell unconscious on the motel-room floor.


	9. Retribution

Upon waking, Jo could feel her thighs aching and her back throbbing with some deep pain she could hardly comprehend. At first she thought it was the after-effects of a hard night in- vivid memories of Dean pressing her against that wall came to mind. But the pain was too direct, too real.

Jo's eyes flickered open, the sun seamlessly pouring right into her line of vision, causing her to squint owlishly up at the curtains. Damn it. What was it about the Winchesters that caused her to continuously wake up feeling as if she'd been dropped head-first off the Eiffel Tower? This was, what, the fourth time now?

With an inward groan she sat up, immediately catching sight of her bandaged thighs and stomach. Her reaction should probably have been a little more audacious, but all she could manage to think was a mild sort of _'oh…right.'_

Both Sam and Dean were on the other end of the room, backs turned, working in silence. Jo decided not to draw attention to herself- rather, she stiffly got to her feet, and steadied herself on the bedstead. She was aching like hell- her legs, stomach, and arse, unfortunately. Being in physical agony was tolerable, but now she couldn't even sit down without feeling as if she were being assaulted with an arsenal of searing fire.

She let go and began to pad softly towards the bathroom- but she'd hardly taken a few steps before her screaming muscles decided to pull a Houdini on her, and she went crashing to her knees.

She managed not to squeal, but both boys whipped their heads around simultaneously, rising from their chairs.

"Damn," said Jo meekly as Dean moved around the room to come to her assistance, eyes filling with concern and guilt.

"How you doing?" he asked, kneeling down to her level. She felt like a diminished little seven year old that had fallen and grazed her knee.

"Fine," she snapped waspishly in reply.

"Are you sure? You look-"

"I'm fine, Dean. Help me up. They're just scratches."

Dean shrugged and extended an arm. Jo took it and attempted to haul herself up but found her strained legs wouldn't give her the leverage and began to topple backwards.

Dean instinctively reached out and caught her, around the waist- his arm accidentally and unintentionally brushing across that very tender spot on her bottom.

Jo yelped before she could help herself and Dean paused to stare at her with a look of growing disbelief, which quickly turned into glee.

"Don't even say it," she snapped with narrowed eyes.

"So… the hellhound…"

"Dean…"

"Wolfie literally_…_had a '_piece of ass?'_"

There was an awkward pause, before Dean began to laugh helplessly and Jo blushed, fingers still clasped around his forearm. When she spoke, it was a little flustered.

"Hey, jackass, if you haven't noticed I'm in a sort of precarious position here, so would you mind helping me the hell up?"

Dean was still laughing, but relented and helped her onto her feet. Jo reached out again for the bedstead to support herself, glowering.

"Hey, that's pretty funny, Jo," said Dean, still chuckling mirthfully. "You gotta admit."

"Yeah, well, before '_Wolfie_' turned up you were having a little shameless _'piece of ass'_ yourself. So, I wouldn't be talking, smartass," snapped Jo in reply, massaging her aching bottom.

Needless to say, that shut Dean up, and he spent the remainder of the silence with an expression of contemplative curiosity.

"So, did you find anything out about the dog?" said Jo finally, running a hand through her hair to break out the knots.

"Uh, yeah," said Dean, glancing back at Sam who had settled back into his chair, laptop balanced on his knees, watching them both scrutinisingly. Dean shrugged.

"Once they've been let out, they can't be sent back to hell until they kill someone. Anyone. They need to seize a soul in order to return. Except for the Mississippi hound- but we made a deal with a demon for that one, and that's a dime a dozen. Last night, Arianne Silver was killed, ripped to pieces. She's five rooms down from us."

Jo shuddered, revulsion thick in her throat.

"Oh, god. She died because of me, didn't she?" she whispered, clenching her fists. "Because the hound couldn't get me, so it killed her?"

"No," said Dean firmly with that savage expression which said he meant every word he was about to say.

"She died because some demonic son of a bitch killed her. So, we're going on a retribution mission. Did the demon say anything to you? Anything that might help?"

Jo paused and her eyes wavered momentarily to Sam's bowed head. She swallowed.

"Uh, no," she lied, and then paused momentarily before quickly adding, "Well, yes, actually- It's the Duluth demon. Meg."

"Oh," said Dean, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes with a huff. "That motherfucker is going down, I swear."

"Anyway," continued on Sam dryly, picking up from where Dean had left off. "Her neighbour, Lucy Jones, heard the screams and came to have a look. She says she saw a large black dog in her apartment before it ran away."

"Ran away?" repeated Jo with a scoff.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I guess she didn't really want to put 'vanished into thin air' into her statement…"

"As per normal," added Dean with a reasonable shrug and smile.

"So, where is she going to be tonight? She's going to need guarding, right?"

"Ah, yes," said Sam, eyes flitting down to his laptop, chewing on his bottom lip.

"I managed to, uh, get into her email inbox…"

Sam flushed, Jo looked vaguely amused and Dean looked almost proud.

"…she's got tickets for a musical tonight. Let's see… Cadillac Palace Theatre… Phantom of the Opera."

"Hot damn!" exclaimed Dean perhaps a little too loudly, making Jo jump in surprise. She looked around at him, blinking, brows furrowed.

"Phantom of the Opera? With Marni Raab? I love that chick!"

Dean seemed to notice his boyish exuberance a few moments too late because when he'd finished both Sam and Jo were staring at him with identical expressions of dubiety.

Dean made a face as if he were about to speak but seemed to think better of it and went quiet again, prolonging the silence.

"So, uh," said Jo finally, daintily taking a seat on the bed, still giving Dean a rather self-satisfied look.

"How much are the tickets? For three of us, I mean, it's going to cost a pretty penny…"

"Wait, whoa, slow down," said Dean quickly, intercepting her with a swarthy glare.

"Who said you're coming? You're been targeted and, quite frankly, it's a two-man job. Plus, what the hell? You can hardly walk, Jo, let alone work something like this. You're staying here."

"Uh, no," replied Jo, her voice uncharacteristically ironclad. There was usually always the part of Jo that could be swayed but right now it was pure untainted determination- an undeniable streak of Ellen shining through.

"I don't care if I need to walk there, Dean, I'm coming with you and I'm going to kill that son of a bitch myself if it means I've got to unload an entire magazine into somebody's head."

Dean's jaw steeled. "Jo, it's stupidity. You're not going. End of story."

"To hell with stupidity, Dean! I'm going with you. No two ways about it."

"Oh, really?" he replied, becoming more vehement. "And where's the money, Jo? You gonna pay for your own ticket? Huh?"

The memory came back to Jo in a thunderclap of verbal fury.

"Where's the money? You tell me, Dean? What about the five hundred dollars I won from Poker back at the steakhouse? Yeah, you thought I'd forgotten, hadn't you?"

Dean's sudden silence and the fervent anger in his eyes told her he had. The tension and heat radiated from them both until finally Dean sighed and averted his eyes.

"Alright. Fine. Whatever."

"Don't shrug me off now, Dean," she chased relentlessly, her interest piqued. She'd only just remembered that substantial pot of money- and she hadn't seen it since. "Where's the money?"

Dean looked awkward. "In that alcohol you were so keen to gulp down, the fuel, the motel room, the bandages and the sterling bullets. Hey, you gotta earn your keep, sweetheart."

"And the rest?" she asked, quirking a brow. She wasn't shaken so easily- five hundred dollars wouldn't go so quickly on such meagre equipment.

Dean sighed again. "Alright- in the trunk. It's in the trunk."

Jo smiled viciously in victory, and Sam chuckled, exchanging a mental high-five. It was always nice to watch somebody find a chink in Dean's armour, given that it wasn't a regular occurrence.

"Alright, so- when's it start?" asked Dean, casually scratching his head.

"Seven thirty," replied Sam after a brief glance to his computer screen.

Dean dropped his hand and yawned, flexing his arms and stepping towards the bathroom.

"Well, I call first shower. Sammy, book those tickets."

Dean shut the door behind him but didn't bother to lock it and Jo paused, on the brink of indecision, staring at the door. She seemed to come to a conclusion and stepped stony-faced for the door, turning the knob with a mumbled excuse something along the lines of 'getting my hairbrush.'

Dean was already getting undressed, shirtless and down to his boxer shorts when Jo barged in. Dean blinked incredulously at her.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, indignant.

"Shhh," said Jo with a wince, leaning in to the shower and turning both taps to full. The jets fired out with a satisfying hiss. She slid close the shower door and stepped forward, herding Dean back towards the vanity bench. He looked suspicious, even defensive, those taut muscles in his arms bunching and bracing, his eyes locked on hers.

"Sam," she whispered, bringing her head up to his ears, her breath tickling his neck, eyes imploring. "It wants Sam next."

Dean's eyes widened, surprised both by how daringly close she was to him, and the words coming out of her.

"What?"

"When you were possessed." Jo heaved a breath as if saying it without the need to fill her lungs would make it easier. "It told me that Sam was next on it's list of priorities."

"Why? Why the hell would it want Sam, of all people? He's supposed to be the leader of the apocalypse!"

"Shhhh!" she warned him, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes. Their voices were shielded by the running water.

"Because… It wants to whittle away everything from you until you've got nothing left to stand on."

Jo paused and her teeth tightened on her lower lip. "That way, when your year is up, you'd have nothing left to live for anyway."

Her voice was so low, almost deathly, pained, heart-wrenching. She could see the despair and shock in his eyes.

"It told you?" he said finally, voice surprisingly hoarse, uncontrolled.

Jo couldn't help herself. The vulnerability, the desperate need to steel himself, almost tore the tears from her eyes. She reached up and put a hand to his chin, feeling the warmth of his jaw, the rigidness of his muscles.

"Yes," she whispered, and though she had so much more to say, the words wouldn't come.

She dropped her hand and stepped away.

"Sam's next," she repeated in a deadpan before she turned and quickly retreated from the bathroom, leaving him to stare blankly at the bathroom door.


	10. Acrimony

The rest of the afternoon went without incident, aside from the fact that Jo discreetly nicked one of Sam's jackets when he was in the shower. She knew he wouldn't mind, and inwardly she didn't want to have to ask Dean for another article of his clothing. She'd returned his singlet but she was still wearing his possession charm and that was enough to compensate.

Dean didn't speak to her after the encounter in the shower, but he didn't seem too angry either, so she got dressed with a relatively angst-free gut. She hated that heavy feeling that sometimes pressed on her insides like solid stone. It was agony.

They settled into the Impala, the boys in the front and Jo in the back, as per normal. Jo withdrew the Jericho from her belt, flipped open the magazine to observe the five sterling bullets and the one empty bullet hole, scrubbing the metallic exterior affectionately before replacing it at her waist.

"So, what's the plan of action?" said Dean finally, guiding the Impala down the street with a staunch expression.

Sam shuffled and observed the tickets in his hands, blinking to decipher the writing in the shaky light streaming in from the streetlights outside.

"You and Jo have seats together on the left side of the theatre, back row, aisle seats. I'm on the aisle on the right. The girl, aah… Lucy, she's one row ahead, center. We should have equal coverage of the aisles if anything happens."

"What are you going to do if the hound goes directly to her seat? You won't be able to see that from the aisles," Jo pointed out.

"That's true," conceded Sam thoughtfully.

"Well planned," growled Dean with a scathing stare at his younger brother before re-fixing his eyes on the road.

Sam bristled slightly, narrowing his brows.

"What would you have me do, Dean? Walk in with a sniper rifle?" Sam looked surly, and swigged the can of diet coke resting precariously on his leg.

"Well, yeah? Why don't you tell me, O_sam_a?" replied Dean with emphasis.

Sam blanched and accidentally sprayed the diet coke all over the dashboard. Dean looked scandalized.

"Oh… my god. I've heard a lot of bad digs about my name, but _that_… that takes the cake, Dean," spluttered Sam, eyes streaming.

"Well, you deserve it. Clean it up," he added, tossing Sam some tissues. Resentful, but obliging, Sam began to clean up the coke.

"And besides," continued on Dean with a shrug, digging underneath his seat while simultaneously keeping his eyes on the road. After a moment of rummaging he came up with something that looked suspiciously like an M40A3.

"Oh please god, tell me that's not a sniper rifle," gasped Jo witheringly, nails digging into the upholstery. There was an awkward, terse pause

"…that's a sniper rifle," chimed Sam weakly. Dean looked around at them in an innocent way as if he didn't understand how his plan could fail.

"Dean, how the hell do you expect to smuggle in a DMR into a fucking musical, for god's sake?" asked Jo, uncomprehending. His stupidity amazed her sometimes. Dean chuckled.

"Breathe deeply," he replied in a patronizing sort of way, turning to meet her eyes briefly before he turned his attention back to the gun, sliding off the telescopic view from the top of the rifle before replacing it under the seat and tossing it to Sam.

Sam caught it, bewildered.

"Put it on the Beretta. You might not get the range but you'll get the accuracy, and you should see the thing pretty clearly if it shows up."

"Holy crap, Dean," snapped Sam, expelling his breath in a relieved, though somewhat pained sigh. "You scared the crap out of me."

"Keep your panties on. I'm not an idiot, Samantha."

"Alright, come on, stop it with the 'Samantha'. It's overused and stupid. And it isn't funny anymore."

"It's hilarious. Your sense of humor is just shit."

"Oh, really?" snapped Sam, switching back into his highbeam mode with generally meant he was going to come back with something cutting. Jo watched on with vague interest.

"I still find the notion that the name 'Dean' means 'valley' pretty amusing."

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"No laughs for you, Sammy," he replied lazily, quirking his brows. "And that's like, a million years old, thought you'd have grown out of that by now…"

"Or, there's the ever looming manner of your second given name…"

Dean jerked and the Impala zoomed across the road before he managed to steady it. Jo, caught off balance, went flying into the door with a discontented 'oomph.' Sam laughed.

"No you don't, Sammy boy," growled Dean tersely. "Don't you dare use that against me. Or I swear to god I'll throw you out of the car right now…"

"You brought it upon yourself when you called me 'Osama,'" reasoned Sam imperialistically, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Shut up, Sam. Shut up now, or you're walking…"

"Really? You going to turf me out? Dean…"

"Yes, I will…"

"-_valley_.."

"Don't even start …"

"Too late…"

"You're going to wake up with a faceful of shaving cream in the morning,"

"At least my middle name isn't '_Gertrude_," replied Sam, his grin growing wider and wider still until his dimples looked as if they were eating his face.

There was a long, electric, painful silence. Jo held back a giggle.

"Wow," she said finally, gnawing on her lip with a grin. "Eheh.. That must really suck."

"You're going down," said Dean after a moment, using that steely no-nonsense tone which said he wasn't joking.

"Really?' said Sam mildly, not sounding particularly ruffled.

"Yes. It's on, little brother."

"No, it isn't. I'm not bending to your level."

"Well, good. You can take it all without complaint then, because I'm telling you now, your life is forfeit."

Jo was struck with a sudden stroke of brilliance and she immediately dug out her phone, the boys still bickering up the front. She turned on Bluetooth and Sam's name soon popped up on her screen. He'd left it on. Excellent.

A shrill beeping in the front seat shocked Sam from the argument and he pulled out his phone, looking quizzical, turning to fix Jo with a curious look.

"What are you sending me?" he asked, suspicious.

"Accept it."

Sam shrugged and warily connected the Bluetooth. Jo snuggled contentedly into the back seat until it finished the transfer and Sam snorted quite loudly as the image of Dean gnawing on his pillow popped up on his screen.

"What is it?" asked Dean suspiciously, craning his neck to try and take a look.

"Nothing," said Sam quickly, wriggling out of reach and continuing to play with his phone. Jo suspected by the smug expression and the punctual chuckles that he was probably sending it to anybody in his phonebook who had ever come into contact with Dean. Served him right.

"We're here," said Dean, pulling into the crowded car park and somehow immediately snapping up a parking space not far from the entrance.

"Sam, you go first. Me and Jo will play man-and-wife."

"Don't be too long," suggested Sam, before swinging his long legs out of the car and making his way toward the queue at the entrance.

Jo edged forward on the seat and leaned forward through the space, supporting herself on Sam's vacated seat.

"Why don't we all go in together?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Sam and I are escaped criminal masterminds, Jo," he reminded her. "They're looking for two brothers, not a man and his girlfriend. It's easier this way."

Jo shrugged and settled back down on her seat.

Once Sam had filed through the ticket booth without fuss, they followed suite, exiting the car and making their way toward the lineup.

Jo knew they were playing happy family again but it still shocked her slightly when Dean snaked an arm across her waist and pulled her tight. She obligingly rested her hand on the small of his back, smiling winsomely as the pimply seat attendant came into view.

"How many?" he croaked in a vague sort of way. He looked rather dim-witted, to say the least.

Dean looked to Jo, to the boy, to Jo and back to the boy again. His expression became slightly ludicrous.

"Oh, I don't know," said Dean scornfully. "I can't count that high, either."

Jo stomped down hard on his foot and the boy blinked at him as if he had just been slapped with a wet fish.

"Uuuh, two," said Jo, snatching the tickets out of Dean's hand and offering them to the boy with a sheepish smile. "Two seats, please."

Once the boy had ripped their tickets and they were safely out of his earshot, Jo gently clouted Dean over the head.

"You jackass," she snorted, shaking her head.

"He was an idiot," said Dean defensively.

"So what? Have you filled your asshole quota for the day, Dean? Or should I find you another hormonally challenged teenager to insult?"

Dean said nothing but the silence was slightly abashed and Jo smacked him on the ass in a playful sort of way to lighten the mood.

"Look, just try and keep your mouth shut. We need to keep the girl safe, that's the main priority."

The theatre was cold. Perhaps eerily so. Jo knew that it was deliberate, to set the mood- there were mist machines working on stage, after all- but still, her mind told her that cold was bad and she subconsciously drew Sam's jacket tighter around herself.

"Can you see him?" said Jo, teeth chattering.

"Not yet," said Dean though Jo could see his eyes swiftly moving back and forth over the crowd in search of his brother.

Their seats were at the very back of the theatre, in the row. Dean took the seat at the very edge of the aisle and Jo sat beside him, on an angle, her back shielding him from view as he silently withdrew his pistol and lay it between his knees.

"There he is," hissed Jo, inclining her head to Sam, sitting on the other edge of the theatre, near the other aisle. He had not yet seen them- his eyes were roving down the aisle.

"There's the girl," said Dean not long after, giving a short nod towards the blonde in the next block of seats, second row from the back.

"Don't get distracted by the show," he suggested, and though Jo could already feel the music pulling her attention, she nodded.

The lights dimmed before long, bringing the cold to a whole new level. She huffed and crossed her arms as the stage was illuminated with a blue light.

She ignored it for as long as she could, eyes peeled for any anomalies in the crowd. But soon the demanding actors on the stage managed to ensnare her and she looked up briefly to watch.

There was an old woman beating a young boy, the younger phantom, other dancers singing a crescendo in the background.

"_You damn demon! Villain! Ne'er do-well! Libertine! Dangerous! Hideous! Monstrous! BEAST!"_

Damn it, the music was contagious, captivating. Jo tore her eyes away and resolutely stared down the aisle. And damn it! It was cold!

She shoved her hands into Sam's pockets, fisting her fingers, biting down on her lip. Nothing strange so far.

Something metallic and hard was pressing at her fingers and she paused momentarily before pulling it from Sam's the jacket pocket. At first she thought it was a pin or perhaps a pen-lid he'd left there, but it was a different texture, foreign.

She blinked and looked down to her palm, spreading her fingers, observing it in the dim filtered lights from the stage.

Her nerves were suddenly set alight, horror trapping her gut. Her eyes flickered to Sam sitting across the way and then to Dean. She tugged at his jacket sleeve.

"Dean!"

He didn't reply.

"DEAN!" her voice was urgent, demanding. Her fingernails closed on his forearm and demanding his attention. He turned, impatient.

"What is it?" he asked, green eyes effervescent in the light, flickering across her face.

She unfurled her fingers ad throat forward her palm. Dean's eyes followed.

It was a charm- a possession charm. _Sam's_ possession charm.

Dean paused as the implications registered. Jo squirmed and dropped the amulet into his lap. Dean paused, huffed, and laced it around his neck for safekeeping.

"I can understand him forgetting it after the shower, but… stowing it away…. he's not that stupid, or wily," whispered Dean, addressing the conclusion they had both drawn in unison.

"What do we do?" she implored, eyeing over the blissfully unaware Sam, watching the aisle on the other end of the theatre.

"You stay here, watch the girl, and watch Sam. I'll be back soon. Don't let anything happen, you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Shoot first, ask questions later."

"Okay."

"Don't shoot Sam."

"I won't."

Dean's hand touched her cheek on the spur of the moment and he looked for a moment as it might turn into something more intense, but he hesitated. It was a lurid farewell and he left it at that. With a curt nod, he slipped inconspicuously from his seat and moved to the exit at the back of the theatre.


	11. Redemption

**Sorry for the wait!**

**This is the second last chapter, everybody. There will only be one more and I'm very thankful for all my faithful readers and reviewers. As most writers will know, reviews make it worth getting up in the morning and I do a little jig everytime I see a new email from FF popping up.**

**I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.**

* * *

Jo was nervous as all hell.  
Worse, she was just a bit confused- Dean had left her alone with a few half-baked instructions, her attention was being divided constantly between Lucy, the aisles, Sam, and stage and the exit, and she was beginning to fidget with her pistol- never a good thing. 

The impulse to go after Dean was intense but if the demon was in Sam, it would mean that figuratively, the entire job would be blown and the girl would be practically a little worm dangling on a hook. Not to mention, Dean would be furious. But still, Sam had made no suspicious movements yet and the girl was perfectly fine, as far as she could see.

Surely if there was something to be done, it would happen now, when the music was loud and dramatic and all eyes were fixated on the stage. Jo gulped, observing Sam's profile for the umpteenth time.

Unexpectedly, Sam began to twist towards her and her eyes flicked quickly to the aisle she was supposed to be guarding. Sam was looking at her scrutinisingly, no doubt comprehending that Dean was gone, before he slowly turned back to the aisle with a little more fervency.

She could see his eyes beginning to rove the theatre and she gulped down the bile that had decided to settle somewhere near her lungs.

A movement between the seats drew her attention and she sat bolt upright, squinting.

A shadow of a suspicion wasn't smart to act on, but if she was right, then the time was nigh. She slid silently from her seat and backwards toward the open space near the back of the theatre, near the exits, now with a clear view of both aisles. She stared fixedly down the corridor, looking for anything peculiar, no matter how dubious.

A pair of malevolent red eyes assailed her near the row of seats on Sam's side. And though he was staring right at it, he was making no move to stop it- nor even acknowledging its presence.

Jo moved before her caution got the better of her.

Now or never. She flicked the cartridge on the pistol, brought it just under the line of her eye, aimed, and fired.

She noticed with a sinking feeling that the dog vanished before the bullet could even draw close, and despite the loud crescendo coming from the stage, it seemed that the sound of the gun firing was still loud enough to draw attention. The bullet embedded itself in the floor and heads began to turn frantically.

She ducked impulsively behind the back wall, heart thumping erratically. She'd have been hard to see in the darkness but she knew that if she was caught, she was well and truly screwed.

Screams began to sound like bugles around the theatre and a steady stream of people streamed past her, frantically moving towards the exits.

The Machiavellian in Jo noted that they were also inadvertently moving directly towards the source of the gunfire. If she _was _a stark raving murderous lunatic, she noted with a sort of sadistic amusement, they'd all be fucked right now.

In the tumult of movement she saw Sam, and quickly darted towards him, feigning confusion and horror in all the cacophony.

"You okay?" said Sam with an expression of concern.

The demon was playing oblivious, obviously unaware that Jo had already unravelled the act long before. Jo nodded numbly, not in the mood for any more confrontation.

"To the carpark, quickly," she breathed, catching his arm though she inwardly loathed to touch him. Sam obligingly thundered beside her through the crowd and outside where people were swirling everywhere, getting into cars or else searching frantically for relatives.

They were walking blindly, head turning, searching for any sign of Dean or the Impala. Jo couldn't see him. She'd suspected he had driven off somewhere but now was _really_ not a good time to be stuck with a possessed Sam in an abandoned car park.

And that was swiftly what it was becoming. The longer they waited the more people drove away. The theatre was emptying with frightening speed and what was once a crowded parking area was now almost bare.

Sam's fingers closed around her arm.

"Maybe we should head back into the theatre. Check it out, see if the hound managed to snag anybody…"

"It didn't," she replied quickly and abruptly, eyes still searching desperately for Dean. But Sam was tugging on her now, insistent, pulling her back into the dark, empty building.

"We know it needs somebody," he replied, persuasive, even a little forceful. "We know it needs to kill in order to disappear somewhere to rest. It could have snagged somebody in the panic. Come on, Jo."

He was too strong, and even though she was now outwardly fighting him, he pulled her in towards him and tugged her violently towards the theatre. Her voice caught in her throat.

"Hey!"

Sam paused and fluidly raised his head as a familiar voice called out from the curb. Though Jo knew the situation was becoming steadily more dangerous and poignant, from an outsider's point of view it would merely look like a slight difference of opinion.

Nevertheless she was very much relieved to catch sight of Dean. His features were silhouetted by the streetlights so she didn't know if the sight had confirmed his suspicions or not, but Sam's grip eased on her arm and he began to walk calmly towards the Impala. Jo hesitated before following.

"What happened?" asked Dean, bemused, as they all climbed into the Impala.

"I shot the hound," said Jo shortly, conveniently omitting the fact that she'd shot it when Sam should have, that it had been right between his crosshairs and yet he had made no move to pull a trigger.

Dean accelerated away towards the apartment. Jo lifted her forearm to examine it in the periodical flashes of streetlight. There were already bruises visible on her skin from where Sam had grabbed her.

Jo wasn't ready to blow Sam's cover just yet. She knew, and she thought that Dean did, too, that if they jumped the gun too early all would be lost and the demon could easily send the Impala flying off the road and into space. But then, Dean was almost a little too at-ease for her liking.

They pulled up at the front of the motel and stepped out of the car. Dean handed Sam a large canvas bag and indicated to the door.

"Goofer Dust. Carry it up."

Sam withdrew his Beretta and handed it to Dean to put in the trunk, sliding off the precision view.

Without a word Dean began to tug out two more bags, handing the other to Jo and heaving the last up into his arms. It was quite heavy for Jo's petite frame but she handled it without complaint, watching Sam moving toward the door.

When he was out of earshot, Jo seized her opportunity overzealously, desperate for Dean to understand.

"Dean…"

"Shhh," he replied shortly, cutting across her despite her impatience. "Just trust me."

* * *

They hauled the canvas bags up to the room in pursuit of Sam, who dropped his bag beside the door and stood in the center of the room, his expression suspiciously buoyant as he dusted his hands.

Dean's eyes swept the windows, still sealed with goofer-dust from the previous evening, then the door, still only half-sealed.

Dean's eyes flicked onto Sam.

"Go seal the fireplace, too," he suggested. They hadn't had time before and Dean knew from experience that the hounds weren't particular in how they infiltrated.

Sam nodded, took a handful of goofer dust from the bag by the door and moved towards the firepit. Jo saw his eyes flicker from the ceiling, to the floor, before he kneeled in front of the grate on the rug and commenced to seal it with the dust.

"Check the airvents," said Dean once he'd finished, now with a harder tone of voice, and Sam obligingly got to his feet, still wearing that gently satisfied expression.

He turned and took a step toward the vents, but stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing and his expression becoming suddenly ugly.

"Haha," exclaimed Dean, face contorting into a knowing snarl of glee. "Yahtzee! You should have checked under the rug, gorgeous."

Sam cocked his head though remained silent, his face betraying his fury. His fingers balled into fists by his sides, staring resolutely at Dean.

"Come on, I'm waiting for the mind games to take effect. _Cristo_!" said Dean with a conversational air. Jo couldn't deny, he looked like a dog that'd cornered a cat.

Sam's eyes filmed black and he looked physically slapped, recoiling and taking a step backwards before his eyes returned to normal and he shook his head, chastened.

"Tsk tsk, I've made a horrible mistake in judgement." he purred finally, suave and manipulative. "Alas, you've got me trapped, at least for the moment, Dean. But, you know. That won't stop me watching as your pretty blonde confidante gets peeled like a banana."

"You really aren't in the position to be making threats," said Dean ruefully.

"And forgive me for not keeling over at the prospect of my impending doom," added Jo airily.

"I may not be much of a threat yet, no," conceded Sam, smiling sinisterly. "But my hound is."

With that a snarling sounded at the door and a large black canine stepped over the broken line of dust.

Jo had only seen the snatches of the creature, in darkness or upon waking, but now in the clarity of day it was even more horrifying than she'd first assumed. It was less of a dog than a rotting sort of wolf, ribs visible through filmy skin, sharp yellow teeth and malign eyes, muscles rippling and claws that looked more like a lion's than a dog's.

As the dog stepped into the room, Dean kicked at Sam's abandoned bag of goofer dust, which spilled across the floor, covering the area near the door. But he hadn't kept it out- he'd sealed it _in._

Jo gasped in horror and stepped back towards the door. Sam began to laugh.

But Dean looked more dutiful than horror-stuck; he calmly upturned his bag of goofer dust and encircled himself to keep out the hound.

Jo quickly followed suite, sealing herself against the wall, panic turning to a sort of unsteady unease.

Sam was not laughing any more, but was now silent, even foreboding- staring at the dog with a peculiar expression of regret.

Dean was smiling triumphantly.

Then Jo understood- Dean had trapped the demon with a devil's trap under the rug. That was what he had left the theatre for. And now the hound was trapped too. And with Dean and Jo in a precarious safety, there was only one more target for the hound's picking.

Sam's eyes widened as the dog began to advance, hungry, growling incessantly, claws ripping holes in the carpet.

"You're really willing to risk your brother's soul?" said Sam, stepping backward. "You've risked so much to keep him alive and now he's going to be mutilated anyway…"

He laughed scathingly. Dean scowled.

"I'm not an idiot, you condescending little fuck. That dog only needs _one _soul. If Sam dies, you die with him."

The demon looked at Dean, fuming. It had two choices- allow Sam to be killed but be killed also… or kill the hound, which would leave him trapped without defence.

_Hellhounds are said to live forever but are not immortal- they can be slain by the hand of the demon from whom they have been sent._

With an inhuman yowl of fury, Sam grabbed the iron firepoker by the grate, and swung it downwards.

The iron point skewered through the dog's thick physique, and it noiselessly convulsed, eyes glazing and a sudden heatless fire setting it alight. It burnt without noise, twisting into nothingness, leaving a pile of ash on the carpet in its wake.

Dean let out the breath he had been holding, grinning victoriously. It had been extremely risky and though the demon had called his bluff, he'd saved his own neck.

"Good girl," said Dean gruffly. "I knew you'd see it my way."

"I'm going to watch you drop to your knees," howled the demon furiously. "You'll suffer everything I've suffered! You will feel hell before you're even there! I'm going to kill Sam, and I'm going to kill Jo, I'm going to kill them all…"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," replied Dean but Jo could see a twinge of furious anxiety behind those mirthless green eyes.

He strode purposefully to the dining room table and seized his father's journal, flipping it open with excellent dexterity, turning to appraise the demon.

He recited the exorcism ritual without any pause, despite Sam screaming furiously, yelling out for Dean to stop, making desperate attempts to distract him.

At one point he brought Sam's hand into his mouth and threatened to gnaw off his fingers- but Dean did not relent. Sam began to methodically bite on his fingers and scream in pain but moments later he was jerked onto his knees, spread his arms to both sides and expelled a steady stream of black matter from his mouth.

And this time, instead of escaping out into the sunlight, it was sucked directly downwards. Jo could hear the briefest echoes of screaming before the demon was enveloped by hell and all went silent.

Sam gasped and fell on his back, huffing, holding his hand and shutting his eyes tight in agony. He cradled his palm to his chest and Jo could see that his fingers were bleeding profusely where he'd gnawed down on them.

"Morning, sunshine," breathed Dean in an exhausted fashion as Sam slumped down across the grate, blinking in a bewildered fashion up at the sooty, scowling male and the bruised, dirty female both looking down at him as if they didn't know whether to embrace him affectionately or kick him somewhere painful.


	12. Rapture

**A/N: Ah, the last chapter. Sorry for the wait, I've been working very slowly on it over the last week or two and I'm a little sad to see it end.**

**Thank you to all of my faithful reviewers- there are too many to name individually, but I thank you, and love you all. **

**It is possible I might do a sequel to this one (dean/jo) or a Sam centric fic. Please, let me know via review.**

**Adieu, and enjoy. Xxoo**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

There was a peculiar sort of euphoria hanging over Dean for the rest of the evening. Jo found difficulty in putting a finger on it- he seemed vivacious and vibrant all of a sudden, like a weight had been lifted.

She didn't know how, but she knew why- Dean thought he'd found a solution to his woes. Jo didn't share his enthusiasm. Something the demon had told her stuck to mind like a burr and she couldn't shake it despite the fact that even Sam was looking perkier than he had since she'd first met him.

_There will always be more hounds in hell then there are bullets on earth._

Jo wasn't tired but she was beginning to feel ill- more to do with the constant cold gales that seemed to haunt Chicago incessantly than anything to do with the demon.

She'd come up in a fever and was snuggled deep in Sam's jacket as they sat around the table, completely exhausted and gently triumphant. At least their work had yielded success, though Jo was still guilty for the three murders she'd been unable to prevent.

"Bottom's up," said Dean spiritedly, sliding a shot glass across the table.

Jo stopped it and ran her fingers across the glass absently before she downed the shot, closing her eyes tight for a moment to dispel the taste of the vodka before she set down the class and sighed wearily.

Dean and Sam exchanged a surreptitious glance but said nothing. Jo convulsed with the cold and then broke out into a barking cough, shivering incessantly.

"Are you alright?" asked Sam finally. He'd salved and bandaged his fingers but they still seemed to be rather tender and he'd taken to cradling his hand to his chest to keep it safe.

"No, I've been bashed and mauled by a demon and his dog but I'm going to fall prey to a particularly nasty cough," replied Jo in a deadpan. "I'm fine, Sam."

Sam shrugged and Dean raised his eyebrows, pouring himself a glass of Smirnoff.

"You're just acting a little… lacklustre," said Sam tentatively, leaning back a little as if expecting Jo to break out in hives and fangs and leap at him over the table.

Jo shrugged again and crossed her arms, leaning back. Sam took the hint and didn't pursue the subject.

"So, where are you headed now?" asked Jo to both of them in general, brown eyes lazily gliding up to appraise them from the shot glass.

"New York," said Sam. He had that hardness to his voice which no longer shocked her as it once had.

Dean looked up fleetingly, saw the same steely expression that she did, and looked back down to his alcohol with a look of steady acceptance. Whatever was in New York was evidently something that couldn't wait. Dean had a suspicion that it might have something to do with Sarah Blake, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I'm exhausted," said Jo finally, blinking sleepily into the fluorescent down lights. Her arms and legs were aching like hell and her eyelids felt weighted.

She crossed her arms and heaved a sigh, her head dropping on to her chest, savouring the warmth in Sam's jacket and the soft burning of Vodka at the back of her throat.

"So am I," said Dean quietly and for the first time in a long while, Jo believed him.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jo woke with her teeth chattering and a fever flushing down the length of her body, causing her skin to rise into goosebumps and a peculiar feeling of trepidation and illness to stir in her chest.

It was too cold for the thin cotton sheet she'd been sleeping under for the last few days. Sleeping on the floor generally wasn't something Jo skived out of but this was beyond ridiculous.

Jo rolled out from under the blankets and the cold struck her like a slap to the face. It took her a few seconds to realise she was only in her bra and underwear- her pyjamas were wet from the laundromat, so she'd wriggled out of her dayware clothes under the shield of her blanket and promptly gone to sleep.

Well, no wonder she was so goddamn cold.

Thankful for the darkness and the soft sound of breathing which meant the boys were fast asleep, Jo padded lithely across to the cupboard and wrapped her fingers around the wood, slowly and noiseless pulling it open. It was a creaky cupboard by age and nature but Jo managed to handle it without a sound. She was good like that, stealthy and catlike.

Unable to see properly in the inky darkness, she rummaged blindly, searching for a blanket with the tips of her fingertips, pressing her frame against the woodwork

She couldn't find anything but towels and doorstoppers and she swore a muffled expletive into the wood, pulling back and shutting the door again. The cold was really starting to bite into her now, vicious and unrelenting. A cough welled in the depths of her throat but she fought it back down, the fever spasming up the length of her body. She keeled momentarily, hands on knees, but recovered without a sound and moved grimly towards the walk-in wardrobe.

A peachy colour stood out in the dark and it looked suspiciously like a folded blanket.

Slightly pissed that she was getting around half-starkers on a midwinter night in Chicago to look for something to keep her warm, she dropped to her knees and crawled forward under the clothes shelves towards it.

She realised upon touching it that it was just another folded towel and she staunchly refused the urge to yell out in frustration.

Turning on the spot, her shoulder accidentally hit one of the hotel luggage cases left there and it fell on top of her with a loud bang and the sound of cascading clothes.

This time she didn't hold back- she let loose a strangled "_FUCK!_" as the suitcase smacked her onto her belly, folding her legs underneath her and hitting her arms to the floor. She hissed into the blackness.

Something stirred from the bedroom and Sam's voice drifted in, sleepy and slurred as if he was half awake.

"Stuck?" he asked, hardly coherent.

"No," replied Jo spitefully, trying to ease the weight from her back, "I'm delivering a wardrobe."

She half-expected him to spring to his feet and come to her aid but instead she heard the steadiness of his breath returning and that silence which meant he'd gone back to sleep.

Well, damn him to hell.

Wriggling onto her back, she used her legs for leverage and pushed the case off of her torso, crawling out of the confined space and out onto the floor where she collapsed for a moment, enjoying the freedom of movement.

As tempting as it was to make a carpet angel just to confuse the boys in the morning, now it was serious and she was beginning to become a little more audacious in her search for a blanket. Maybe it was the alcohol talking.

She moved quickly but still without a sound out into the bedroom. Jo doubted she'd have the heart to rouse Sam again- and he was a little too empathetic for his own good, he'd leave her feeling guilty.

No, she could go fetch a blanket from the front desk or the communal cupboard down the hall by herself. She just needed the keys.

Slightly vindictive, Jo slid across to Dean's bedside and whispered his name softly. Given that he was a light sleeper, he shouldn't have to go to any lengths to wake himself up.

"Dean," she hissed. He doesn't move and his breathing pattern remains the same- sharp and erratic.

Her hands wrapped around the edge of the mattress and she jogged it slightly, trying to rock him into waking.

He tensed, but made no other indication that he knew she was there and his eyes were still closed.

"Dean!" she whispered again, putting a hand to his shoulder to shake him.

He moved so quickly, she thought that the world had exploded. Dean lunged, took her by the arm, pulled her hard onto the mattress and held a knife to her throat all in one fluid moment.

"_Owfuck_," hissed Jo, pinned and helpless and extremely disgruntled. But warmed, to a certain degree, by his body and the heat in the sheets.

"Jo," he breathed after a moment, lazily stowing the knife back under his pillow and rolling off her as he realised who it was.

"I was going to ask you for the hotel keys," she whispered tartly. The warmth was too pleasant to leave and she stayed on the mattress for a little while, trying to remove herself from the sheets that Dean had inadvertently tangled her in.

Dean, far too possessive to give up the mattress, refused to budge and as a result they were left lying side by side as Jo slowly unwound herself from the bedding.

The struggle had left her breathless and empty and she drew in a heavy, cold breath of air as if she were surfacing from a lake. The iciness of the oxygen caused her lungs to seize and she twisted as she broke out into a hacking cough, facing away from Dean for the sake of politeness.  
After the coughing fit she fell still for the moment. She could feel the vague taste of blood on her tongue- perhaps she was coming down with pneumonia. Sam was still sleeping like a log in the next bed.

"Are you alright?" asked Dean gruffly, albeit with concern.

"Been better," she admitted, finally disentangling herself from the sheets. She made to roll out from under the doona, but found, to her surprise, that Dean was stopping her, holding her back.

"I can sleep on the floor," he whispered, more of a growl than anything else. Jo felt his voice rumbling through his chest.

"No," she said, still attempting to scramble away with a snort and a brisk shake of her head.

"Wait," said Dean softly but audibly and Jo paused mid-scramble, looking slightly ungainly crouched in the sheets alongside him.

She turned to face him and was a little closer than she'd first presumed. Immediately what was playful and perhaps a little erratic became deeper, more intense, static. Jo could see the green of his eyes reflected in the light of the moon outside.

"What did I say to you?" he said finally, voice cracking a little, more from the fact that he'd just woken than anything to do with emotion.

Jo blinked, bewildered. "What?"

Dean cleared his throat. "When I was possessed. I want to know what I said."

Jo stiffened and blinked into the darkness. Well, this was unexpected.

"Nothing," she replied but her tone wasn't very convincing and Dean immediately picked up the quaver in her voice.

"Bullshit," he whispered with a noise of derision. "It's important."

"No it's not," replied Jo defensively, but she knew she was lying to herself. Now keen to get away from him, she rolled away as if to use her momentum to leap to her feet but Dean held her back and pulled her into the centre of the mattress, supporting himself above her to stop her from getting away, arms trapping her on either side.

"Son-of-a-bitch," grunted Jo. Dean was smirking triumphantly above her and cocked his head, quirking his brows with a 'get on with it' sort of look on his face.

"You aren't going to like it," she ventured and shook her head.

Dean didn't say anything but Jo could tell from his silence that he was prompting her to continue.

"Meg killed my father," she said slowly, turning her head away so he wouldn't be able to see any emotion that would well in her eyes. "She possessed your dad because he moved too quickly and made him fill my dad up with buckshot."

"That wasn't his fault," said Dean stonily as if she were directly accusing John.

"No," she continued, gnawing on her lip to hold back the emotion threatening to distort her voice. "It wasn't, you're right. But the demon was still in my father, and he was still alive, just wounded. John shot Bill in the head just for the sake of killing the demon while he was trapped inside him."

A tear ran unbidden down her cheek and she swiftly wiped it away, sniffing ungraciously.

"The worst thing is, evidently, it came to nothing. Meg escaped, anyway."

Dean was silent and tense, contemplative. Sam was still sleeping soundly beside them and Jo reigned in the emotion which had been threatening her ever since that fateful episode in Minnesota.

"I'm sorry," said Dean finally, inclining his head.

"Don't be," said Jo quickly, keen not to make the same mistake twice. "You aren't him, Dean. You aren't John. Don't be sorry."

Dean was silent, if a little gloating, at that. Jo had never ever admonished an apology before and he was sort of basking in the afterglow. He rolled off her, signalling that she was free to go if she wished.

"But can you promise me something?" she whispered as an afterthought.

"Uhh," said Dean hesitantly, not too keen to get into a deal he wasn't going to come through with.

"Don't stop looking for an answer," she told him, grabbing a hold of his shirt and hauling herself up to face him just so he got the point.

"Don't think that you're going to get away with shooting every dog that comes your way, Dean. You need to get out of your deal- you can't just dance around it."

"Oh, right. On whose authority?" said Dean with an archetypical quirk of his brows.

"Mine," purred Jo smugly, poking him square in the chest, "and god knows I'm always right."

Dean groaned and brought both of his hands to his face, pressing the pads of his fingers to the lids of his eyes. "Shut up."

Jo bristled with a snide grin, wrinkling her nose and leaning close so that the impact of her voice was far more intense than it would have been, even with his eyes covered. "Make me."

She knew she was baiting him, asking for trouble, because he would do one of two things. Either sock her one in the face and kick her out of the bed or kiss her. As it was, he chose the latter.

With an impatient grunt of irritation and the sudden flickers of desire he reached up to her neck, searching for a shirt or some type of material that he could use to pull her down. But she was only in her bra and underwear, and Dean seemed to have only just realised. He paused, surprised, but she giggled ruefully and obligingly slid down the length of his body. He was on top of her and suddenly she felt neither sick nor cold. Dean's soul didn't matter, Sam didn't matter, the hunt didn't matter. All that mattered was here, and now, Dean and Jo. It was a feeling of completeness and something in Jo wanted it to stay that way.

Despite the cold Chicago night and the weight of the world that had been unceremoniously tipped on their shoulders, for once in their lives both of them felt a sense of pure, untarnished, undeniable rapture.

**THE END**


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